HER  YEAR  IN 


NEW  YORK 


CHAP  IN   RAY 


8.  F.  McLtAN.  FOOK8ELLE», 
•46  80.  BROADWAY,  LOS  ANQELJEf 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


Anna  Chapin  Ray's  Stories 

THE  SIDNEY  BOOKS 

I.  Sidney:  Her  Summer  on  the  St.  Lawrence 
n.  Janet:  Her  Winter  in  Quebec 
III.  Day:  Her  Year  in  New  York 

(OTHERS  IN  PREPARATION) 


THE  TEDDY  BOOKS 

I.  Teddy:  Her  Book 
II.  Phebe:  Her  Profession 
III.  Teddy:  Her  Daughter 
TV.  Nathalie's  Chum 
V.  Ursula's  Freshman 
VI.  Nathalie's  Sister 


"  For  an  instant  he  looked  keenly  down  at  her."     FRONTISPIECE. 
See  p.  233. 


DAY: 

HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


By 

ANNA  CHAPIN  RAY 

Author  of  "  Teddy :  Her  Book,"  "  Phebe :  Her  Profession," 

"  Sidney :  Her  Summer  on  the  St.  Lawrence," 

"Janet :  Her  Winter  in  Quebec,"  Etc. 


ILLUSTRATED  FROM  DRA  WINGS  BY 
HARRIET  ROOSEVELT  RICHARDS 


Boston 

Little,  Brown,  and  Company 
1907 


Copyright,  1907, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 

Ml  rights  reserved 
Published  September  1907 


^Printers 
S.  J.  PA.RKHILL  <fc  Co.,  BOSTON,  C.  S.  A. 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


"FOR   AN    INSTANT    HE    LOOKED   KEENLY 

DOWN  AT  HER" FRONTISPIECE 

"  DAY  ROSE  AND  FACED  THEM  HOTLY  "      .  Page    75 

"THE     TWO     FRIENDS     STOOD      LEANING     ON 

THE    EDGE    OF    THE    AQUARIUM"  .       .  "       122 

"'I     DO     WISH      I     COULD     DO     THE     THINGS 

YOU    DO,'    DAY    SAID,    ENVIOUSLY"     .       .  "       239 


DAY: 

HER  YEAR   IN   NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  ONE 

"T  AM  so  tired  of  doing  the  usual  thing!"  Day 
said. 

From  her  corner  where  she  habitually  bent  above 
her  clattering  typewriter,  the  elderly  stenographer 
looked  up  with  an  ill-suppressed  smile. 

"When  I  die,"  Day  continued,  half  to  herself,  half 
to  the  surrounding  walls  of  the  office;  "it  should  be 
written  on  my  tomb  that  I  fell  sick  of  doing  all  the 
trite  old  things.  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  he  would  come!" 
she  added,  with  a  great  yawn  which  she  made  no 
effort  to  hide. 

The  stenographer's  eyes  dropped  back  to  her  work, 
lest  in  their  depths  a  lurking  gleam  should  betray  her 
amusement.  Day  Argyle's  vigorous  young  strength 
scarcely  marked  her  as  for  a  premature  tomb;  her 
dainty  alertness  and  the  happy  curves  of  her  scarlet 
lips  gave  the  lie  to  her  temporary  repinings.  What- 
ever its  source,  Day's  boredom  was  obviously  but 
skin  deep. 


DAY:   HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


"You  said  he  wouldn't  be  back  for  an  hour?"  she 
demanded,  as  she  faced  about  suddenly.  Then 
without  waiting  for  the  affirmative  reply,  she  faced 
back  again  and  fell  to  tapping  impatiently  on  the 
sill  of  the  open  window,  measuring  the  time  of  her 
taps  to  the  click  of  the  typewriter  which  had  once 
more  taken  up  its  monotonous  refrain. 

Far  down  at  her  feet,  so  far  away  that  its  strident  din 
was  hushed  to  a  murmur,  the  ceaseless  tide  of  lower 
Broadway  rushed  through  its  narrow  canon,  seeking 
in  vain  an  outlet  which,  found,  it  would  have  dis- 
dained to  use.  Swirling  throngs  of  foot  passengers, 
long  lines  of  heavy  drays  with  their  shouting  drivers 
and  cracking  whips  and  creaking  burdens,  proces- 
sions of  street-cars  whose  curved  and  overhanging 
roofs,  seen  from  above,  converted  them  to  the  like- 
ness of  vast  and  active  turtles,  cabs  darting  to  and 
fro  hi  the  crowd,  seeking  by  ten  zigzags  to  gain  a  foot 
of  advantage  over  then*  heavier  neighbours :  all  these 
formed  an  unceasing  procession  which  forced  itself 
upward,  jostled  at  every  point  by  a  similar  proces- 
sion which  came  sweeping  down  from  the  upper  end 
of  the  city.  Now  the  tides  met  in  two  wholly  dis- 
tinct waves;  now  an  eddy  circled  about  some  invisible 
obstacle;  again  the  opposing  currents  mingled  in  a 
whirlpool  which,  starting  from  an  inconspicuous 
centre,  broadened  until  the  narrow  street  from  curb 
to  curb  was  filled  with  a  maelstrom  which  defied  all 
progress.  Sometimes  a  fallen  horse  was  the  centre, 
some  times  a  careless  pedestrian;  but  the  end  was 


DAY:   HER  YEAR  IN  NEW   YORK  3 

always  the  same,  a  whirling  confusion  which  lasted 
for  a  moment  only,  then  gave  way  to  the  opposing 
currents  which  once  more  flowed  steadily,  ceaselessly 
along  their  separate  ways. 

To  Day,  far  above  it  all,  for  the  most  part  it  seemed 
a  silent  flowing.  Now  and  then,  as  she  leaned  farther 
out  the  wide-open  window,  she  could  separate  the 
din  into  its  varying  parts :  the  clang  of  the  street-car 
gongs,  the  crack  of  the  teamsters'  whips,  the  beat  of 
countless  footfalls  and  the  roar  of  many  low-toned 
voices.  It  was  a  constant  sort  of  din,  rising  and 
falling,  but  as  unbroken  as  the  human  tide  that  gave 
it  birth.  Even  to  Day's  young  ears,  it  spoke  of  the 
restless  human  life  that  forgets  to  be  glad  for  what 
it  already  has,  lest,  in  its  gladness,  it  neglect  to  snatch 
for  that  which  it  has  not.  And  then,  all  at  once, 
Day's  face  lighted.  From  far  down  among  the  roofs 
at  her  feet,  though  so  far  above  the  crowded  street 
that  they  dominated  its  ceaseless  din,  there  rang  out 
the  Trinity  chimes,  sounding  the  call  to  some  mid- 
morning  service. 

The  light  still  lingered  in  the  girl's  brown  eyes,  as  she 
turned  away  from  the  window  to  greet  the  man  who 
had  stepped  from  the  lift  just  outside  the  office  door. 

"At  last!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  thought  you  were 
never  coming.  Where  is  Rob?  He  said  he  would 
be  here  ahead  of  me." 

"He  met  Blanchard  just  now,  and  turned  back 
with  him.  They  were  only  going  into  Maiden  Lane. 
What  is  the  cause  of  this  visit,  Day?"  Mr.  Argyle 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  LV  NEW  YORK 


queried,  as  he  opened  the  door  of  his  private  room, 
then  stepped  aside  for  Day  to  enter. 

Day's  cheeks  dimpled. 

"Devotion,  Daddy." 

With  a  mock  sigh  of  resignation,  Mr.  Argyle  halted 
half  way  across  the  room  and  drew  out  his  check 
book. 

''How  much,  this  time?" 

But  Day  caught  him  by  the  elbow,  turned  him 
around  and  peered  up  into  his  face. 

"How  mean  of  you,  Daddy!  Millions  won't  buy 
visits  from  me;  and  you  needn't  imply  that  I  never 
come  here,  except  when  I  want  something." 

"Then  you  don't  want  anything,  to-day?" 

"Not  one  single,  solitary  thing,  except — "  Day 
paused  abruptly. 

Mr.  Argyle  tossed  his  hat  to  the  table,  stuck  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  and  faced  his  daughter  with 
the  merry  eyes  of  a  half-grown  boy.  Beneath  the 
boyish  pose  and  the  boyish  merriment,  however, 
there  lurked  the  loving  pride  of  a  full-grown  man. 
And  Day,  hi  all  truth,  was  a  fit  subject  for  much 
pride,  although  her  only  real  claim  to  beauty  lay  in 
her  perfect  health,  her  sunny  temper,  in  her  trim 
young  figure  and  her  brave  brown  eyes  that  danced 
and  dreamed  by  turns.  Just  now,  they  danced. 

"Except—  "  she  jogged  him,  ruthlessly  breaking 
in  upon  his  adoring  scrutiny. 

"Well?" 

"You  don't  sound  at  all  curious,  Daddy.    You 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


really  ought  to  help  on  my  climax,  not  let  it  fizzle 
out  like  this,"  she  admonished  him. 

As  a  rule,  that  room  was  sacred  to  the  deeper 
schemes  of  finance,  and  nonsense  was  tabu.  Never- 
theless, — 

"I  am  torn  to  mouthfuls  and  devoured  by  curi- 
osity, Day,"  Mr.  Argyle  averred  solemnly.  "What 
is  it  that  you  want?" 

"An  idea."  Day  spoke  the  two  words  with 
weighty  deliberation. 

"Naturally,"  observed  a  voice  from  the  doorway. 
"You  generally  do.  May  I  come,  Dad;  or  is  this 
secret  session?" 

The  next  instant,  the  owner  of  the  voice,  big  and 
blond  and  hearty,  crossed  the  floor  and  seated  himself 
on  a  corner  of  the  table  around  which  directors  were 
wont  to  discuss  the  fate  of  a  railway  system  that 
centered  in  New  York  and  stretched  its  arms  from 
southern  gulf  to  northern  lake  and  sea.  To  Rob 
Argyle,  however,  that  fact  mattered  nothing.  To 
his  mind,  a  table  was  a  table,  and  the  mere  detail 
that  it  served  for  board  meetings  made  it  none  the 
less  fit  to  support  his  sturdy  self. 

Day  nodded  blithely  to  her  brother.  Then  she 
returned  to  the  charge. 

"And,  as  long  as  I  knew  it  would  be  of  no  use  to 
ask  Rob  for  such  a  thing,  I  came  in  town  to  talk 
it  over  with  you,  Daddy." 

"It?"  Rob  queried  politely,  while  he  dandled  on 
his  knees  the  stick  which,  together  with  a  slight  limp, 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


were  all  that  remained  of  a  football  accident,  two 
seasons  since. 

"The  idea,  of  course." 

Rob  turned  argumentative. 

"  How  can  you  talk  over  something  that  you  don't 
have?"  he  asked. 

"The  way  you  are  always  discussing  your  own 
merits,"  Day  responded.  "  Do  be  still,  Rob.  I  want 
to  talk  to  Daddy.  Do  you  realize,  Mr.  Argyle,  that 
your  daughter  will  be  sixteen,  next  week?" 

This  time,  her  words  produced  an  unexpected  sensa- 
tion. Mr.  Argyle  took  his  hands  out  of  his  pockets  and 
stared  at  his  tall  daughter  in  unfeigned  astonishment. 

"Day!  You  don't  mean  it!  It  doesn't  seem 
any  time  at  all  since  you  used  to  come  down  to  des- 
sert and  steal  the  sugar  out  of  my  saucer." 

"It  is  several  years,  Daddy." 

Mr.  Argyle  dropped  down  into  his  presidential  chair 
and  rested  his  chin  in  his  hands. 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  he  admitted.  "Then  my  baby 
is  really  getting  to  be  a  young  lady." 

Day  shook  her  head  in  violent  dissent. 

"No  young  lady  about  it,  Daddy;  only  a  great 
big  girl.  I  hope  you  approve  of  her." 

"Not  so  bad  as  she  might  be,"  Mr.  Argyle  said 
temperately.  "Sixteen,  next  week!  Dear  me,  Day; 
does  your  mother  know?" 

In  spite  of  herself,  Day  laughed. 

"  I  suppose  so.    I  haven't  meant  to  be  sly  about  it." 

"No.  You  couldn't  well  suppress  the  fact,  I  suppose. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


Still,  I  confess  it  rather  took  away  my  breath.  Six- 
teen! What  are  we  going  to  do  to  celebrate?" 

"That's  where  the  idea  comes  in,"  Day  told  him. 

From  his  seat  on  the  corner  of  the  table,  Rob 
turned  to  stare  inquiringly  at  the  door.  Then  he 
lifted  his  brows  and  shook  his  yellow  head.  Day 
ignored  his  dumb  show.  Instead  of  heeding  it,  she 
rushed  into  her  subject,  headlong. 

"I  am  tired  of  doing  all  the  same  old  things  with 
the  same  old  people,  Daddy,"  she  burst  out.  "That's 
why  I  came  in  town  to  talk  it  over  alone  with  you." 

"Shall  I  depart?"  Rob  made  meek  query. 

"No;  you  don't  count,"  Day  reassured  him  crush- 
ingly.  "But  it  is  mother  who  can't  understand. 
She  is  a  darling;  but  she  can't  see  any  reason  that  I 
shouldn't  go  on  till  the  end  of  time,  inviting  people 
to  parties  so  that  they  shall  invite  me  back  again, 
giving  bangles  and  bonbons  to  Ruth  and  Boaz  at 
Christmas  and  having  them  give  me  bangles  and 
bonbons  on  my  birthday.  No;  I  just  used  the 
names  for  example.  My  real  chums  don't  live  in 
Hester  Street.  But,  truly,  I'm  no  Yankee;  I  hate 
to  live  by  swapping.  Think  up  something  new  for 
me,  Daddy;  or  else  let's  not  celebrate  at  all."  Day 
paused  abruptly  to  hide  the  little  quaver  in  her  voice, 
and  her  brown  eyes  were  suspiciously  bright. 

Leaning  back  in  his  chair,  Mr.  Argyle  surveyed  his 
daughter  in  obvious  perplexity.  Surely,  it  was  not 
the  tale  of  years  alone  that  proved  her  growth  towards 
womanhood. 


8  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Hasn't  your  mother  any  plans?"  he  asked  slowly. 
"Usually  she  is  the  one  to  suggest  such  things." 

"Yes."  Day's  tone  rang  disdainful.  "She  was  go- 
ing to  give  me  a  garden  party,  Alceste  to  cater  and 
little  enamel  daisy  pins  for  souvenirs.  And  the  girls 
that  would  come  have  more  pins  than  they  know 
what  to  do  with,  and  they'd  all  go  and  have  some 
more  garden  parties  and  ask  me  to  come  to  them. 
By  the  end  of  October,  we'd  all  be  just  even,  neither 
one  of  us  owing  the  rest  so  much  as  a  macaroon." 

The  perplexity  was  still  manifest  upon  Mr.  Argyle's 
face,  as  he  queried,  — 

"What  would  you  like  to  do,  Day?" 

Her  answer,  albeit  unexpected,  came  with  a 
promptness  which  betokened  thought. 

"I'd  like  to  give  a  rousing  good  tune  to  somebody 
who  didn't  expect  it,  and  who  couldn't  pay  me  back, 
the  very  next  day." 

Rob  slid  off  the  table  with  a  bounce. 

"Bully  for  you,  Day!"  he  observed  approvingly. 

"No,"  she  objected  perversely.  "I'm  no  angel, 
Rob.  I'm  only  tired  of  the  other  sort  of  thing." 

Rob  walked  around  the  table  to  seat  himself  at  her 
side.  Then,  bending  down,  he  seized  her  and  swung 
her  up  beside  him. 

"Never  mind  putting  a  name  to  it,"  he  said  coolly. 
"Let's  plan  who  we'll  have." 

"Where  will  you  have  it?"  Mr.  Argyle  asked, 
catching  at  the  first  concrete  point  that  offered  itself. 

"Out  at  Heatherleigh,  of  course.    You  said,  this 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


morning,  that  we  were  to  stay  a  month  longer.  The 
only  question  is,  what  will  It  be?" 

"  Were  you  thinking  of  newsboys,  Day?  "  Mr.  Argyle 
tried  in  vain  to  keep  the  dubious  note  from  his  voice. 

The  quality  of  Day's  laugh  betokened  the  limita- 
tions of  her  missionary  spirit. 

"Never,  Daddy!  I  believe  in  taking  good  things 
to  them;  but  I  never  could  see  any  sense  in  taking 
them  to  look  at  good  things  they  can't  ever  so  much 
as  dream  of  having.  No;  I  meant  to  ask  somebody 
who  would  really  enjoy  Heatherleigh  and  appreciate 
it,  and  yet  wouldn't  turn  right  around  and  ask  me 
somewhere  else,  somebody  who  would  like  to  live  just 
the  way  we  do,  if  she  only  had  the  money  to  do  it." 

"Day,"  Rob  said  abruptly;  "Sidney  Stayre  was  to 
get  home,  last  week." 

Stopped  in  her  eager  tide  of  words,  Day  turned  to 
look  at  her  brother  uncomprehendingly. 

"Did  she?"  she  asked,  and  the  irrelevance  of  her 
verb  betrayed  her  indifference.  Sidney  Stayre  was  a 
mere  name  to  her,  the  friend  of  a  friend  she  herself 
had  chanced  to  make,  the  previous  winter. 

"Yes,"  Rob  assented.  Then  he  fell  silent  again; 
but  not  until  he  had  received  and  answered  a  glance 
of  interrogation  from  his  father. 

"What  of  it?"  Day  was  still  lost  hi  her  main 
theme,  and  her  tone  continued  indifferent. 

"I  thought  you  said  you  wanted  to  know  her." 

"So  I  did;  but  there  is  plenty  of  time  for  that. 
I'll  go  to  see  her  when  we  come  back  to  town.  Now 


10  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

do  help  me  plan  for  the  seventeenth,  Rob,"  Day  be- 
sought him. 

"Why  not  ask  Sidney?" 

Rob's  arm  was  around  her  shoulders;  but  Day 
wriggled  herself  out  of  his  grasp  to  stare  at  her  brother 
as  if  she  thought  he  had  suddenly  parted  company 
with  his  wits. 

"  Sidney !    Sidney  Stayre ! " 

"Sure.     Why  not?" 

"Why,  because  —  because  she  isn't  poor-folksy," 
Day  answered  promptly. 

And  Rob  answered  no  less  promptly,  - 

"No.  Neither  is  she  rich-folksy,  either.  That's 
no  sign  she  wouldn't  enjoy  Heatherleigh,  though." 

"But  she  wouldn't  come." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know  her." 

"Time  you  did,"  Rob  said  calmly.  "I'll  take  you 
there,  any  day  you  choose." 

"Yes,  call  on  her  and  ask  her  to  come  to  my  birth- 
day party,  all  in  a  breath,"  Day  made  disdainful 
answer.  "I  don't  know  Sidney  Stayre;  but  if  she's 
the  girl  you  say  she  is,  she'd  put  me  out  by  the  back 
door." 

"What  for?" 

"Because  I  was  trying  to  patronize  her." 

"That's  not  Sidney,"  Rob  objected. 

Day  snuggled  back  into  the  curve  of  his  arm. 

"You're  a  dear  boy,  Rob,  and  you  know  some 
tilings;  but  you  don't  know  girls  one  bit.  No  mortal 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  11 

girl  with  any  snap  to  her  would  ever  stand  it  to  have 

a  stranger  walk  into  the  house  and  invite  her  to  a 

j  party,  the  first  time  they  ever  spoke  to  each  other." 

"Try  it  and  see,"  Rob  advised  her  placidly.  "Sid- 
ney isn't  a  mortal  girl;  she's  an  immortally  nice  one." 

Day  laughed,  in  spite  of  herself,  at  the  calm  confi- 
dence in  his  voice. 

"Not  so  nice  as  I  am,  Rob?"  she  wheedled. 

"As  nice  as  you.  But  honestly,  Day,  why  don't 
you  ask  her?  She  is  as  nice  as  any  girl  in  your  set, 
and  she  doesn't  have  one-tenth  as  many  good  times. 
She  would  appreciate  it,  too.  Go  to  see  her,  to- 
morrow, and  ask  her  out  to  Heatherleigh,  Day. 
You'll  like  her,  I  know;  but,  even  if  you  don't,  you 
owe  her  something  for  the  way  she  stood  by  me,  last 
whiter,"  Rob  urged,  for,  even  while  he  spoke,  there 
flashed  across  his  mind  the  picture  of  Sidney  Stayre 
hurrying  to  and  fro  to  hasten  his  journey  northward 
when  word  had  come,  one  winter  afternoon,  that  Day 
was  halting  upon  the  threshold  of  Death's  open  door. 

All  involuntarily  Day's  face  softened,  too.  She 
knew  the  story  well,  knew  it  from  Rob's  frequent  tell- 
ing. And  Rob  was  her  other,  better  half.  Perhaps 
she  too  owed  something  to  this  girl  whom  she  had 
never  seen. 

"What  do  you  think,  Daddy?"  she  asked  irreso- 
lutely. 

Mr.  Argyle  had  seen  Sidney  Stayre.  His  answer 
was  not  irresolute  at  all. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  go  to  see  her,  Day,  for  Rob's 


12  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

sake  and  for  Ronald's,  too.  Then,  if  you  choose,  you 
can  ask  her  out  to  Heatherleigh,  before  we  come  back 
to  town." 

"If  I'm  going  to  do  it  at  all,  I  may  as  well  do  it  on 
the  seventeenth,"  Day  said  bluntly.  "I  needn't  tell 
her  it's  my  birthday.  But  I  can't  see  why  she 
shouldn't  come  to  see  me,  first." 

Mr.  Argyle  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  opposite 
wall. 

"I  should  not  imagine  that  Sidney  Stayre  was  a 
girl  to  seek  for  friends,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"She  doesn't  have  to."  Rob's  answering  tone  was 
a  trifle  curt. 

Strange  to  say,  Day  liked  its  curtness. 

"I'll  go,  to-morrow,  Rob,  if  you'll  take  me,"  she 
said,  as  she  slipped  to  the  floor  and  stood  with  one 
hand  resting  on  her  brother's  broad  shoulder.  "We 
can  see  about  Heatherleigh,  when  we  get  there.  At 
least,  I'd  like  to  thank  her  for  being  so  nice  to  you." 
Then,  of  a  sudden,  the  earnestness  left  her  eyes  and 
she  laughed.  "But,  Rob,"  she  said,  in  mock  dismay; 
"do  you  realize  the  responsibility  you  are  taking? 
We  may  like  each  other,  of  course;  but,  after  all  that 
you  and  Ronald  have  said,  the  chances  are  that  we 
shall  fight  like  the  cats  of  Kilkenny." 

Rob  bent  down  to  disentangle  a  button  from  a  lock 
of  her  brown  hair.  Then  he  spoke. 

"I'll  risk  a  row,"  he  said  benignly. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  13 


CHAPTER  TWO 

rpWENTY-FOUR  hours  later,  among  the  throng  of 
•*"-  men  waiting  for  a  blockade  of  streetcars  to  re- 
move itself  from  the  crossing  in  front  of  Newspaper 
Row,  there  was  one  who  caught  and  held  the  atten- 
tion of  many  of  his  neighbours.  His  distinction  lay, 
not  in  any  especial  elegance  of  person  or  of  dress, 
but  rather  in  his  whole  carriage  and  bearing,  in  the 
erectness  of  his  broad  shoulders,  in  the  unconscious 
ease  of  his  stride,  in  the  level  intentness  of  his  brown 
eyes.  Women,  as  they  passed  by,  turned  to  give 
him  a  second  glance  of  approval.  Elderly  men  stared 
at  him  with  honest  liking.  It  was  plain  to  their 
maturer  minds  that  a  soldier's  training  had  taught 
him  a  soldier's  lesson:  that  the  first  duty  of  a 
masterful  man  is  to  learn  to  obey. 

And,  meanwhile,  careless  of  all  scrutiny,  the  young 
man  stood,  his  hands  in  the  side  pockets  of  his  short 
blue  coat,  glancing  alertly  this  way  and  that  to  dis- 
cover the  earliest  possible  opening  in  the  barricade  of 
cars  before  him.  For  the  most  part,  he  paid  scant 
heed  to  the  people  about  him.  Now  and  then  he 
gazed  approvingly  after  the  bulky  and  dignified 
policeman  who  was  seeking  to  clear  a  passageway  for 
the  impatient  crowd;  once  he  laid  a  steadying  hand 


14  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IX  XEW  YORK 

upon  the  little  old  lady  who  stood  on  the  curb  beside 
him,  an  apple-cheeked  old  lady  so  weighted  with  years 
that  one  wondered  how  she  chanced  to  be  alone  in 
that  busy,  dangerous  corner  of  the  New  York  bedlam. 
Then,  without  pausing  for  her  thanks,  he  took  away 
his  hand  and  resumed  his  watch  for  an  open  cranny 
through  which  he  could  force  his  energetic  way.  His 
lips,  as  he  watched,  were  shut  in  a  tight,  close  line; 
but  the  brows  above  the  level  eyes  were  as  smooth 
and  kindly  as  the  eyes  themselves  were  honest. 

One  car  had  started  forward,  and  another,  and 
another.  At  last  the  whole  line  was  in  motion,  and 
the  waiting  crowd  surged  forward  sharply,  regardless 
of  the  plunging  horses  of  the  truck  which  had  been 
the  first  cause  of  the  whole  delay.  The  young  man 
straightened  his  shoulders,  threw  back  his  head  and 
then,  yielding  to  the  pressure  of  the  crowd  behind 
him,  dashed  forward  to  make  the  crossing  before  a 
second  blockade  should  shut  down  over  the  busy 
thoroughfare.  The  next  instant,  he  hesitated, 
stopped  and  glanced  over  his  shoulder,  his  keen  eyes 
searching  the  throng  until  they  rested  on  the  apple 
cheeks  of  the  little  old  lady  whose  decorous  straw 
bonnet,  now  wildly  askew,  seemed  tossing  to  and  fro 
upon  the  shoulders  of  the  crowd.  Ten  strides  brought 
him  to  her  side,  where  he  lost  no  tune  in  putting  his 
sturdy  arm  around  her  breathless  little  body. 

"Stand  away,  please!"  he  gave  curt  command. 
"Don't  you  see  you  are  half  suffocating  this  lady?" 
And,  heedless  of  her  gratitude,  he  took  her  bundle  in 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  15 

one  hand,  her  elbow  in  the  other,  and  steadily,  de- 
liberately forced  his  way  across  the  crowd,  deftly 
steering  his  charge  under  the  very  noses  of  the  fretting 
horses,  between  the  moving  platforms  of  the  cars  and 
among  scores  of  elbows  which  never  once  collided  with 
the  black  straw  bonnet.  As  he  landed  her  safe  upon 
the  opposite  curb,  his  lips  relaxed  into  a  jovial  smile. 

"There  you  are,  safe  and  sound,"  he  said.  "I 
hope  they  didn't  trample  you  to  death;  but  it's  a 
worse  crossing  than  a  Saint  Lawrence  ferry  in  the 
ice."  And,  hat  in  hand,  he  returned  her  bundle,  then 
vanished  into  the  heart  of  the  crowd. 

Quite  unknown  to  himself,  his  action  had  been 
watched  and  approved  by  a  young  girl  who  had  stood 
near  him  while  they  waited  for  the  line  of  cars  to 
break.  Once,  just  as  he  had  anticipated  her,  she 
herself  had  made  a  hasty  step  forward  to  save  the 
old  lady  from  being  capsized  into  the  gutter;  but  her 
own  movements  had  been  impeded  by  a  five-year-old 
urchin  who  wriggled  madly  about,  seeking  to  detach 
himself  from  her  restraining  hand. 

"Why  aren't  I  able  to  walk  by  myself,  Sidney?" 
he  was  protesting  shrilly. 

"Because  you  would  get  run  over,  dear." 

"And  hurted  bad?"  he  pursued  eagerly. 

"Perhaps." 

"And  then  would  I  ride  in  the  p'leece  wagon  with 
the  bell  that  makes  things  get  out  of  the  way?" 

The  youngster's  realism  was  grewsome;  never- 
theless, his  sister  laughed. 


16  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  again. 

"I  mean  the  p'leece  wagon  with  the  red  cross  on 
the  end  of  the  seat  and  the  p'leeceman  in  white 
clothes  sitting  on  behind.  What  does  he  sit  on 
behind  for,  Sidney?" 

"To  keep  the  passengers  from  tumbling  out. 
Now,  watch,  Bungay.  The  cars  are  starting  to  move. 
Keep  tight  hold  of  sister's  hand." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  hold  hands.  Your  gloves 
feel  so  hot  and  squeezy.  I'd  rather  hold  your  skirt," 
Bungay  protested.  "Wait!  Si — i — idney,  don't!" 

For  the  opening  had  come  and  with  it  the  rush; 
and  Sidney  had  settled  Bungay's  preferences  by 
summarily  snatching  him  up  in  her  arms  and  carry- 
ing him  to  the  farther  curb.  Once  safely  there,  she 
paused  to  rub  her  aching  arms,  while  she  gave  an 
approving  glance  at  the  broad-shouldered  man  in 
whose  wake  she  had  achieved  her  own  safe  crossing. 

"I  like  that,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Bungay,  however,  heard.  Hearing,  he  appropri- 
ated the  remark  as  being  addressed  to  himself. 

"So  do  I,"  he  said  amicably.  "It's  'most  as  good 
as  when  Ronald  used  to  carry  me  piggy-back,  three- 
four  years  ago  when  we  were  at  Auntie  Jack's.  You 
mussed  up  my  collar  more'n  he  did,  though,  and  you 
squeezed  my  breakfast  awful.  Now  let's  go  see  my 
father.  P'r'aps,  if  you  ask  him,  Sidney,  he'll  give 
us  some  pennies  so  you  can  get  weighed.  I  weigh 
forty-four  and  a  half,  so  I'll  take  mine  and  get  a  song 
and  some  chocolates,  'stead  of  a  weigh.  Come  on!" 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  17 

And,  tugging  at  her  hand,  he  too  vanished  into  the 
crowd. 

It  was  a  full  half-hour  later  that  they  finally  emerged 
from  one  of  the  tall  buildings  at  the  southern  end  of 
the  row.  Their  errand  had  'been  completed  in  less 
than  half  of  that  time;  but  Bungay  had  insisted  upon 
his  hereditary  rights  to  test  the  relative  swiftness  of 
the  two  lifts  that  pierced  the  heart  of  the  building. 
Finding  it  impossible  to  decide  between  them,  he  had 
tested  them  again,  and  yet  again.  Then,  just  as 
he  had  been  deposited  at  the  street  door  for  the  third 
time,  he  had  suddenly  bethought  himself  that  he 
had  neglected  to  bestow  a  good-morning  kiss  upon  his 
cousin  whose  office  desk  was  tucked  away  hi  a  corner 
of  the  top  floor,  and  that,  in  the  course  of  his  daily 
duties,  his  cousin  was  likely  to  be  cut  off  in  his  prime 
and  go  to  the  grave,  unkissed.  Accordingly,  the 
long-suffering  Sidney  was  dragged  back  again  to  the 
top  of  the  building,  only  to  find  that  the  cousin  had 
been  sent  to  Fordham  to  investigate  the  details  of  a 
subway  accident. 

"And  I  never  kissed  him  good-by,"  Bungay 
wailed,  as  he  once  more  boarded  the  lift.  "Now  I 
guess  Wadell  be  sorry  he  won't  let  me  kiss  him  till 
I  get  through  my  oatmeal  mush." 

But  Sidney  had  her  doubts. 

By  the  time  they  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  western 
approach  to  the  bridge,  however,  the  cousin  was  for- 
gotten and  Bungay  was  prancing  excitedly  before  the 
long  -array  of  holes  in  the  slot  machine,  trying  to 


18  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  XEW  YORK 

decide  which  one  was  best  worthy  of  receiving  his 
pence. 

"I'll  tell  you,  Sidney,  let's  milk  'em  all,"  he  sug- 
gested hopefully.  "I'll  milk  the  first  and  you  can 
milk  the  next,  and  when  they  squirt  out  what  I  want, 
I'll  take  it.  Let's  begin  this  end."  And,  before  Sidney 
could  stay  his  hand,  the  machine  had  clicked  and  a 
diminutive  packet  of  chewing  gum  lay  before  them. 

"Oh,  Bungay!  Throw  it  away!"  his  sister  ex- 
claimed hi  horror. 

"For  why?"     Bungay  gathered  it  in,  as  he  spoke. 

"Mamma  doesn't  let  you  put  that  in  your  mouth." 

Bungay  hesitated,  as  there  flashed  across  his  mind 
the  remembrance  of  the  flavour  of  laundry  soap 
which  had  followed  his  last  indulgence  in  the  durable 
confection.  Then  he  offered  remonstrance. 

"But  it  lasts  twenty  hundred  dozen  times  as  long 
as  candy  and  doesn't  cost  so  much.  She'd  like  that. 
It's  what  she  said  when  these  clothes  came  home, 
'stead  of  the  velvet  ones  I  wanted,  only  I  didn't  have 
curls  to  go  with  them.  Oh,  look  at  that  dog!  Sid- 
ney, look!  It's  just  like  Mrs.  Ellison's  Shags,  and  I 
do  b'leeve  that  man  is  stealing  him  and  carrying  him 
off."  And,  before  Sidney  could  lay  a  detaining  hand 
on  his  arm,  Bungay  had  gone  dashing  away  through 
the  great  vaulted  tunnel,  up  the  stairs  and  out  on  the 
huge  platform  of  the  bridge-car  station. 

With  a  rush,  Sidney  was  after  him.  She  knew 
Bungay  of  old,  knew  that,  once  he  was  started  on  a 
quest,  nothing  short  of  force  could  stop  him,  knew 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  19 

that  such  force  must  be  applied  promptly  or  not  at 
all.  As  a  rule,  however,  Bungay  had  been  wont 
to  behave  with  moderate  caution  in  the  thick  of  the 
down-town  streets.  The  rule  had  been  so  unvarying 
that  now  its  exception  had  taken  Sidney  wholly  off 
her  guard.  Already  Bungay's  lusty  little  legs  had 
won  a  goodly  start.  Up  the  iron  stairway  and  out 
upon  the  platform  Sidney  went  speeding  after  him. 
Now  she  lost  him  in  the  crowd;  now  she  caught  a 
distant  glimpse  of  his  sailor  suit  and  scarlet  cap.  Now 
she  gained  upon  him;  now  a  knot  of  women,  walking 
leisurely  before  her,  barred  her  progress  and  gave 
Bungay  fresh  advantage.  Then,  just  as  a  train  drew 
up  at  the  platform,  Sidney  caught  sight  of  a  stumpy 
brown  tail  following  a  pair  of  checked  tweed  legs 
into  the  rearmost  car.  The  train  quivered  again,  the 
conductor  shouted  warning  and  the  car  door  banged 
together,  but  not  until  Bungay,  with  one  flying 
leap,  had  landed  in  the  aisle  of  the  car,  hard  on 
the  trail  of  the  stumpy,  waggling  tail.  The  next 
instant,  the  train  was  slipping  up  the  grade  and  out 
of  sight. 

For  the  space  of  a  full  moment,  Sidney  paused, 
aghast.  She  was  breathless  from  her  run,  panting, 
and  pale  with  fear.  Bungay  was  self-reliance  itself; 
but  five  is  not  a  great  age,  and  this  was  his  first  trip 
into  Brooklyn.  What  adventure  would  befall  him 
there?  What  would  her  parents  say?  Sidney  was 
seventeen.  Nevertheless,  she  swallowed  hard  for  a 
moment,  and  shut  her  eyes.  She  opened  them 


20  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

abruptly.  Two  steady  brown  eyes  looked  into  hers, 
and  in  her  ears  was  a  level  voice,  curt,  but  kind. 

"Stay  exactly  here.  I'll  take  this  train  across 
and  look  for  him  on  the  other  side."  And,  with  the 
echo  of  the  words  still  in  her  ears,  Sidney  found  her- 
self staring  after  the  broad  shoulders  of  the  same 
man  who  had  piloted  the  little  old  lady  from  curb 
to  curb. 

With  a  bounce,  a  good  hah"  of  her  anxiety  slid  from 
her;  but  even  with  her  relief  was  mingled  an  amused 
wonder  whether  this  latter-day  knight  had  any  em- 
ployment other  than  the  rescue  of  hapless  dames. 
Nevertheless,  however  much  his  lawful  business 
might  be  left  to  shift  for  itself  and  suffer,  it  was  im- 
possible not  to  feel  an  instant  reliance  upon  that 
steady  voice.  The  girl  proved  it  now  by  standing 
as  if  glued  to  the  spot  where  he  had  left  her. 

By  happy  chance,  that  spot  commanded  a  distant 
view  of  the  returning  trains,  and  Sidney's  heart  had 
scarcely  ceased  its  wild  bumping  before  a  row  of 
cars  drew  up  beside  the  platform,  a  door  swung  open 
and  out  popped  Bungay,  smutty,  but  serene.  Before 
Sidney  could  stir,  he  had  spied  her  and  was  hailing  her 
from  afar. 

"Hullo,  Sidney!  He  wasn't  Shags;  but  he  might 
have  been,  and  the  man  paid  my  fare  both  ways. 
You  wait;  I'm  coming." 

And,  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time,  he  trudged 
up  to  her  side,  talking  volubly  while  he  came. 

"It  did  look  like  Shags,  and  I  knew  Mrs.  Ellison 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  21 

would  cry  awful,  if  she  lost  him.  He  licked  my  face, 
and  the  man  gave  me  a  quarter  'cause  I  was  a  brave 
boy  and  didn't  cry  about  it.  He  put  me  in  the  train 
to  come  home  and  gave  me  this  book."  Bungay 
flapped  a  ten-cent  magazine  by  its  rear  cover.  "It 
has  pictures  of  lots  of  engines  in  it  and  a  grizzly 
bear.  And  weren't  you  some  s'prised,  when  you  saw 
me  going  off  on  the  train?" 

And  Sidney  made  fervent  answer,  — 

"I  should  think  I  was." 

However,  long  legs  are  swifter  than  short  ones. 
While  Bungay  had  been  stubbing  down  the  stairs 
and  up  again,  another  train  had  come  in;  before  the 
engine  had  come  to  a  full  halt,  a  figure  had  leaped 
to  the  platform  and  now  dashed  along  the  pavement 
to  pause  at  Sidney's  side. 

"So  the  little  chap  came  back?"  was  the  breathless 
question. 

Calmly  Bungay  turned  himself  about. 

"I  ain't  a  little  chap,  and  'course  I  came  back," 
he  contradicted.  "What  for  should  I  stay  away?" 

Wholly  taken  aback  by  this  infantile  dignity,  the 
stranger  cast  about  in  his  mind  for  a  suitable  reply. 
Bungay,  meanwhile,  stared  up  at  him  rebukingly. 
Then,  of  a  sudden,  his  frown  relaxed,  and  he  threw 
his  dignity  to  one  side. 

"Hullo!"  he  said  affably. 

"Hullo,  old  man!" 

Again  Bungay  frowned. 

"I  ain't  old  man,  and  how  do  you  do?" 


22  DAY:  HER  YEAR  L\  NEW  YORK 

"Quite  well." 

"I  saw  you  once  before,"  Bungay  pursued,  with 
renewed  sternness,  for  it  began  to  dawn  upon  him 
that  the  stranger  was  taking  no  steps  towards  renew- 
ing the  acquaintance. 

"Of  course.  Of  course.  Stupid  of  me  not  to  have 
remembered  it." 

The  heartiness  was  suspicious.  Bungay  impaled 
it  upon  the  point  of  his  next  question. 

"When  do  you  think  it  was?"  he  demanded. 

The  two  honest,  accusing  eyes,  blinking  out  from 
the  round  and  smutty  face,  were  not  to  be  deceived. 
The  stranger  confessed  his  ignorance. 

"I'm  sorry;    but  I  really  can't  say." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you."  Bungay  lifted  his  arm, 
magazine  and  all.  "It  was  three-four  years  ago, 
when  we  went  to  Auntie  Jack's." 

A  sudden  flash  of  recognition  came  into  the  stran- 
ger's eyes.  He  started  to  speak;  but  Bungay  fore- 
stalled him. 

"You  were  the  man  in  the  cap  that  told  Sambo 
what  to  do  next.  You  used  to  fix  your  collar  in  the 
looking-glass  by  the  end  of  the  car;  and  Sidney 
said  —  " 

"Bungay!"  The  word  popped  from  Sidney's  lips 
with  the  force  of  a  muffled  explosion. 

"That  you  must  think  you  were  a  very  handsome 
man,"  Bungay  continued  tranquilly;  "and  I  told 
her  'yes,  you  were.'" 

For  a  moment,  the  two  young  people  stood  facing 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  23 

each  other,  their  cheeks  blazing,  their  very  ears  burn- 
ing hotly.  Then  the  young  man's  twitching  lips 
opened  to  give  place  to  a  roar  of  laughter.  Hat  in 
hand,  he  bowed  to  Sidney. 

"The  little  chap  has  a  good  memory,  for  sure," 
he  said  then.  "I  am  Jack  Blanchard,  and  I  used 
to  be  conductor  on  the  Quebec  sleeper.  I  carried 
you  down,  last  year;  I  remember  now,  though  I 
didn't  know  you  at  first.  I  think  you  are  Miss 
Stayre." 

Sidney  forgot  her  mirth  in  her  astonishment. 

"Yes.     But  how  did  you  know?" 

"I  have  a  good  memory  for  names,  and  yours  was 
a  little  unusual.  So  is  Bungay,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
so  it  is  no  wonder  that  it  brought  it  all  back  to  me. 
What  has  become  of  the  elephant?" 

Sidney  laughed  again. 

"Evidently  you  do  remember  us,  Mr.  Blanchard. 
Jumbo  is  the  final  proof." 

"No;  he  isn't.  He's  in  the  checked  ragbag," 
Bungay  interposed;  but,  for  the  once,  Sidney  was 
deaf  to  the  words  of  her  small  brother. 

"I  remember  you  took  very  good  care  of  us,"  she 
said  to  Jack.  Then  she  added,  while,  with  a  swift, 
frank  gesture,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him;  "and 
I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  thank  you  for  it  now,  as  well 
as  for  the  way  you  have  come  to  my  rescue  here, 
to-day." 

Jack  Blanchard  took  her  hand,  while  his  steady 
eyes  met  hers  in  manifest  and  kindly  approval. 


24       DA  Y:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"It  was  nothing,  either  time.  Besides,  I  have 
another  reason  for  being  glad  of  the  chance  to  look 
out  for  you.  I  think  you're  a  friend  of  one  of  my 
own  best  friends." 

Sidney  glanced  up  expectantly. 

"And  who?" 

"Argyle." 

"Rob?    Rob  Argyle?    Do  you  know  him?" 

Jack  smiled  at  the  change  in  her  tone. 

"Yes.  I  am  in  his  father's  office,  and  I  suspect  it 
was  Rob  who  put  me  there." 

"Tell  me  about  it,  please."  As  the  girl  spoke, 
she  turned,  with  Bungay's  hand  in  hers,  and  moved 
towards  the  street  outside.  "And  tell  me  how  you 
knew  I  knew  him. " 

"I  carried  him  down,  when  his  sister  was  so  ill," 
Jack  said  tersely,  as  he  fell  into  step  beside  her. 
"He  told  me  then  how  you  had  helped  him  off. 
Afterwards,  he  spoke  of  you  often." 

"Where  is  he  now?"  Sidney  asked,  as  she  halted 
on  the  curb. 

"Still  out  at  Heatherleigh.  They'll  be  there  for 
another  month.  You  know  his  sister?" 

Sidney  shook  her  head.  Then  she  signalled  to  a 
car.  Then  she  turned  back  again. 

"Once  more,  thank  you,"  she  said,  as  she  offered 
him  her  hand.  "And  may  I  say  something  else? 
I  saw  you,  this  morning  earlier,  when  you  were  helping 
the  little  old  woman.  I  saw  it,  and  I  liked  it." 

As  she  spoke,  she  was  watching  him  intently.    She 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  25 

was  surprised  at  the  sudden  gentling  of  his  keen 
young  face. 

"I've  a  little  old  mother  of  my  own,  back  there  in 
Canada,"  he  said  briefly.  "I  like  to  feel  that  per- 
haps some  other  chap  will  do  the  same  thing  for  her." 
And,  bowing  again,  he  went  striding  down  the  side- 
walk and  vanished  around  a  corner. 


26  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  THREE 

TN  New  York,  space  is  not  the  only  thing  that  makes 
-*-  distance.  The  Stayres  and  the  Argyles  lived 
scarcely  half  a  mile  apart;  they  were  separated  by  the 
width  of  half  a  world.  Nevertheless,  the  little  house  in 
the  side  street  was  not  one  whit  less  full  of  refinement 
than  was  the  elaborate  establishment  on  Madison 
Avenue  just  above  Fiftieth  Street.  Both  were 
homes;  both  possessed  the  too  rare  secret  of  knowing 
how  to  live  for  themselves  rather  than  for  what  the 
world  said  of  them.  However,  notwithstanding  the 
likeness,  the  distance  was  great,  and  Day  had  been 
wiser  than  she  had  realized,  when  she  had  decided  to 
bridge  it  by  way  of  Heatherleigh. 

She  found  Rob  awaiting  her  in  the  living-room, 
when  she  came  out,  after  luncheon,  that  day.  As 
she  paused  in  the  doorway  before  him,  he  heard 
the  rustle  of  her  skirt  and  glanced  up  with  a  quick 
scrutiny  that  swept  her  from  head  to  heel  and  took 
approving  note  of  her  crisp  pique  gown  and  white 
panama  hat. 

"How  fine  you  look!"  he  assured  her. 

"Not  too  fine?"  she  queried,  as  she  tossed  across 
to  him  a  spray  of  the  honeysuckle  that  wreathed  her 
bedroom  window. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  27 

He  caught  it  as  it  fell,  put  it  in  his  buttonhole  and 
smirked  down  at  it  rapturously. 

"Not  if  you  take  care  to  remember  that  pretty  is 
as  pretty  does,"  he  cautioned  her  then.  "What's 
the  brolly  for?" 

Day  glanced  down  at  the  white  linen  parasol  hi 
her  hand. 

"^Esthetics,"  she  explained  demurely. 

"Rubbish,  Day!  It  shows  it's  nothing  but  a 
whited  sepulchre,  used  to  dress  up  in  when  you  want 
to  put  on  airs.  No  girl  who  habitually  carries  a 
thing  like  that  can  show  up  any  such  coat  of  sunburn 
as  you  do.  Cut  it  out,  and  let  your  peeled  nose  tell 
its  own  straight  story." 

With  sudden  anxiety,  Day  squinted  down  the 
bridge  of  her  nose. 

"Is  it  so  very  bad,  Rob?  I  thought  it  was  mostly 
over." 

"So  'tis;  all  over.  It  covers  your  nose  from  stem 
to  stern.  What's  the  harm  of  it,  Day?  Anything 
is  better  than  a  milk-white  damsel.  If  you're  ready, 
stick  the  brolly  in  a  corner  and  come  along." 

"But  I  want  it,  Rob.  It's  so  pretty,  and  just 
matches  my  other  things." 

"All  right.  Only  don't  punch  it  hi  to  people's 
ribs,  wrhen  you  get  on  the  car,"  Rob  acquiesced, 
although  he  still  eyed  the  offending  weapon  with 
extreme  disfavour.  "It's  pretty  enough,  as  far  as 
that  goes,  and  there's  always  the  chance  of  a  shower." 
And,  without  more  ado,  he  led  the  way  to  the  veranda 


28  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

where  the  trap  stood  waiting  to  drive  them  across  to 
the  suburban  station. 

Day  was  uncommonly  silent,  during  the  half-hour 
ride  to  the  city,  and  Rob,  after  one  or  two  futile 
attempts  to  arouse  her  from  her  abstraction,  fell 
silent  in  his  turn.  His  boyish  mind  took  things 
more  simply.  He  had  met  Sidney  Stayre,  the  pre- 
vious winter,  and  he  had  liked  her  extremely  well. 
By  reason  of  Mr.  Argyle's  business,  the  Argyle  family 
had  spent  the  winter  in  Quebec,  and  Sidney  Stayre 
had  been  a  close  friend  of  their  own  closest  friends  in 
Canada.  Accordingly,  when  Rob's  injured  leg  had 
sent  him  to  New  York  for  a  month  of  special  treat- 
ment, it  had  been  quite  a  matter  of  course  that  he 
should  come  in  contact  with  Sidney  who  had  done 
her  girlish  best  to  make  his  stay  a  pleasant  one.  To 
neither  Rob  nor  Sidney  did  it  seem  to  count  at  all 
that  the  Stayre  home  was  one  of  extreme  simplicity, 
that  Sidney,  with  her  mother's  help,  was  learning 
to  cook  her  own  dinners  and  make  her  own  gowns, 
that  she  daily  denied  herself  as  luxuries  things  which 
to  Day  were  commonplace  necessities.  Rob  Argyle, 
boy-fashion,  took  Sidney  as  she  was  and  liked  her. 
Sidney's  surroundings  he  accepted  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Moreover,  he  was  quite  unable  to  see  why 
Day  should  not  do  so  likewise. 

Day,  however,  was  assailed  by  doubts.  As  a 
general  thing,  she  was  ready  to  accept  Rob's  judg- 
ment as  final.  Rob  was  far  too  loyal  to  Sidney  to 
criticize  the  Stayre  home;  yet,  from  certain  words 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  29 

he  had  let  fall,  Day  had  her  misgivings.  Until  her 
winter  in  Quebec,  Day  Argyle  had  had  singularly 
little  experience  of  homes  ruled  on  other  lines  than 
her  own.  Her  friends  had  been  wholly  from  among 
girls  who  had  no  notion  of  the  meaning  of  the  word 
afford,  girls  whose  lives  slipped  easily  along  well- 
cushioned  grooves.  Less  than  twelve  short  months 
before,  Day  Argyle  had  supposed  that  luxury  and 
good  breeding  were  synonymous  terms,  that  happi- 
ness consisted  in  being  denied  nothing,  save  now  and 
then,  perhaps,  by  way  of  maternal  discipline.  By 
means  of  Quebec  and  of  one  Janet  Leslie,  she  had 
learned  her  lesson  to  the  contrary.  Janet,  wearing 
an  unmistakable  darn  in  her  front  breadth,  had  been 
as  well-born,  well-bred  as  Day  herself.  Day  had 
doubted,  had  fought  against  the  doubt.  In  the  end, 
she  had  accepted  it  in  its  entirety. 

Strange  to  say,  Janet's  independence,  thrift  and 
energy  had  unsettled  Day  completely.  Without 
in  the  least  realizing  the  part  Janet  had  played  hi  the 
shifting  of  her  viewpoint,  Day  had  come  home,  late 
in  the  spring,  only  to  discover  that  the  old  life  cloyed 
her.  Seen  in  the  light  of  Janet's  originality,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  her  former  friends  were  all  doing  the  same 
things,  thinking  the  same  thoughts,  wearing  the  same 
clothes,  even.  Now  and  then  she  caught  herself 
wondering  impatiently  whether  it  was  a  sign  of  in- 
creasing breadth  or  increasing  narrowness  that  she 
now  appeared  to  herself  like  one  of  the  dolls  which,  in 
her  childhood,  her  old  nurse  had  taught  her  to  cut 


30  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

in  long  strings  from  folded  sheets  of  paper.  A  year 
ago,  she  would  have  accepted  with  enthusiasm  her 
mother's  suggestion  of  Alceste  and  the  daisy  pins. 
Now  the  idea  palled  upon  her  absolutely.  With  her 
sixteenth  year,  she  would  shake  off  the  last  of  her 
childhood,  and  she  preferred  to  mark  the  day  in  some 
less  hackneyed  fashion. 

Nevertheless,  she  hesitated  about  Sidney  Stayre. 
Janet  Leslie  might  be  the  one  exception  that  proved 
the  rule;  Janet's  friend  might  well  be  of  another  sort. 
Day  was  not  lacking  in  worldly  wisdom.  Long 
since,  she  had  found  out  to  her  cost  that  it  was  much 
easier  to  get  to  know  the  wrong  people  than  it  was 
to  get  over  knowing  them.  And  Sidney  might  be 
wholly  wrong,  as  wrong  as  her  own  street  and  number, 
only  a  block  away  from  that  of  the  woman  who  came 
to  celebrate  Mrs.  Argyle's  weekly  mending  day. 
To  be  sure,  Rob  liked  her;  but  then,  boys  never 
noticed  things.  However  — 

Turning,  she  looked  at  Rob  as  he  sat  beside  her,  big 
and  blond  and  broad-shouldered,  and  with  such  clean 
blue  eyes,  such  happy  curves  around  his  thin  red  lips. 
He  met  her  look  with  a  smile;  then,  regardless  of  her 
wide  white  hat,  he  flung  one  muscular  arm  along  the 
back  of  the  seat  and  let  his  hand  fall  lightly  to  her 
farther  shoulder.  However,  for  Rob's  sake,  she 
would  grit  her  teeth  and  like  all  things,  even  an 
unknown  quantity  such  as  this  Sidney  Stayre. 

"Finkin'?"  Rob  asked  her,  in  the  vernacular  of 
her  own  infancy. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  31 

And  Day  made  impulsive  answer,  — 

"Yes;  counting  my  mercies.  And  the  chief  of 
them  all  is  - 

But  Rob  cut  in  upon  her  phrase. 

"Your  best  white  brolly.  Well,  pick  it  up  and  come 
along.  Here  we  are  at  Forty-Second  Street." 

The  next  moment,  he  had  relieved  Day  of  her 
burden  and,  sticking  it  under  his  arm,  to  the  manifest 
detriment  of  its  crisp  white  folds,  he  led  the  way  out 
to  the  shrieking  confusion  of  the  city  streets. 

Granted  the  two  extremes  of  slum  and  palace,  the 
rest  of  the  New  York  residence  streets  possess  a 
strong  family  resemblance.  Day's  critical  faculties 
were  all  upon  the  alert,  as,  with  Rob  at  her  side,  she 
crossed  to  Fifth  Avenue,  turned  northward,  then 
turned  again  to  the  west.  She  knew  the  city  well 
enough  to  be  quite  aware  that  she  was  passing  out  of 
the  small  world  inhabited  by  herself  and  her  friends; 
nevertheless,  there  was  nothing  socially  incriminating 
in  the  look  of  the  streets  through  which  they  were 
passing,  and  the  brown-stone  front,  at  which  they 
finally  halted,  differed  in  no  essential  from  divers  other 
brown-stone  fronts  which  hid  from  view  the  homes  of 
her  immediate  circle  of  friends.  To  be  sure,  the  lace 
curtains  at  the  parlour  windows  had  come  from  the 
department  store  rather  than  the  importer's  shop, 
and,  on  the  floor  above,  the  lace  had  degenerated 
into  ruffled  muslin.  However,  that  was  a  mere  de- 
tail, a  detail  no  more  insistent  than  was  the  almost 
aggressive  cleanliness  of  both  lace  and  muslin.  Day's 


32  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

quick  eye  took  it  all  in  at  a  glance,  and  she  followed 
the  glance  with  a  nod  of  approval  at  Rob,  as  he 
touched  the  bell. 

The  next  instant,  she  drew  back,  appalled  at  the 
vision  which  presented  itself  with  a  promptness  that 
suggested  a  curious  eye  pressed  to  an  open  mesh  of 
the  nearest  curtain.  Such  a  vision  as  it  was!  A  tall, 
lank  girl  of  past  fourteen,  homely,  awkward.  Her 
thin  brown  hair  was  drawn  tightly  back  from  her 
freckled  and  spectacled  face;  her  frock  of  dark  blue 
muslin  was  half  concealed  beneath  a  great  green- 
check  apron,  uncompromising  of  cut,  but  spotlessly 
neat.  Cuffs  of  the  same  green-check  protected  her 
sleeves  and  threw  into  pitiless  relief  the  overgrown 
hands,  one  of  which  held  open  the  door,  while  the 
other  still  clutched  a  square  of  chamois  which  bore 
the  unmistakable  marks  of  household  toil. 

At  sight  of  Rob,  the  girl's  face  lighted  into  sur- 
prised recognition,  and  she  started  to  speak;  but  Day 
anticipated  her,  anticipated  her  with  the  level,  mean- 
ingless voice  devoted  to  formal  calls. 

"Is  Miss  Stayre  in?"  she  asked. 

The  spectacles  moved  from  Rob's  face  to  that  of 
Day.  The  eyes  behind  the  spectacles  changed  from 
eager  recognition  to  blankest  astonishment  and  dis- 
approval. 

"Who  do  you  mean?  Sidney?  Yes,  she's  at 
home." 

In  spite  of  herself,  Day  frowned  at  the  crisp,  curt 
answer.  On  one  occasion,  she  had  spent  a  week  with 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  33 

a  remote  cousin  in  an  equally  remote  hill  town.  The 
cousin's  household  had  been  terrorized  by  just  such 
another  damsel  as  this,  the  daughter  of  a  neighbour- 
ing farmer  who  felt  herself  above  her  place.  Day's 
accent  became  a  shade  more  haughty. 

"Please  give  these  cards  to  Miss  Stayre,"  she  said, 
as  she  held  out  the  bits  of  pasteboard  to  the  feminine 
Cerberus  at  the  portal. 

With  frank  curiosity,  Cerberus  bent  her  head  to 
read  the  names. 

"I  don't  need  the  cards,"  she  said  then.  "I  can 
remember,  all  right.  But  you  needn't  be  too  sure 
Sidney  will  see  you." 

The  ice  hi  Day's  tone  froze  an  inch  or  two  thicker. 
She  spoke  with  slow  distinctness. 

"Please  be  good  enough  to  say  to  Miss  Stayre  that 
we  are  here." 

This  time,  Cerberus  showed  his  teeth,  but  in  strange 
and  unfamiliar  wise. 

"Miss  Stayre  your  grandmother!  I  guess  I'll  call 
her  Sidney,  if  I've  a  mind.  Who  do  you  think  I  am, 
anyhow?"  she  demanded  vindictively. 

Thoroughly  angry,  Day  turned  to  Rob,  to  find  him 
choking  down  his  mirth  as  best  he  could. 

"Oh,  come  now,  Phil,"  he  adjured  the  damsel,  with 
what  seemed  to  his  sister  a  shocking  familiarity; 
"don't  get  huffy;  but  go  call  Sidney,  there's  a  good 
little  soul." 

"No  use.  She  won't  see  you."  The  answer  was 
uncompromising. 


34  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Why  not?" 

"Too  busy  and  too  cross." 

"What's  she  doing?" 

"Trying  to  fit  a  dress  that  won't  come  right." 

"Then  whistle  to  her  through  the  keyhole  and  tell 
her  to  let  it  go  wrong,"  Rob  gave  cheery  counsel. 
"Go  along,  Phil,  and  ask  her  to  come  down  and  see 
my  sister." 

The  damsel  hesitated,  gave  a  sharp  look  at  Day's 
face,  another  sharp  look  at  Day's  clothes,-  then  she 
turned  back  to  Rob. 

"She  told  me  she'd  lock  me  into  my  room,  if  I  dis- 
turbed her  again,"  she  said  bluntly.  "Still,  as  long 
as  it's  you,  I  don't  know  as  she'll  mind.  You'll  have 
to  wait  for  her  to  get  dressed,  though." 

By  this  time,  Day's  courage  was  wellnigh  spent, 
spent,  too,  the  force  of  her  resolution  to  clamber  over 
the  barriers  of  her  own  exclusive  set. 

"No  matter,"  she  said  hastily.  "Rob,  do  you 
think  we'd  better — " 

"Sure,"  Rob  made  easy  response.  "Go  along, 
Phil.  Never  mind  us;  I  know  the  road  to  the 
library."  And  he  went  striding  through  the  hall 
with  the  manner  of  one  who  was  treading  upon 
familiar  ground. 

"Rob!"  Day  gasped,  as  soon  as  she  heard  the  foot- 
fall of  Cerberus  retreating  up  the  stairs.     "What- 
what  is  that  —  that  Thing?" 

At  her  horrified  question,  Rob's  mirth,  but  half 
suppressed,  swept  back  upon  him  in  full  measure. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  35 

Dropping  down  into  a  venerable  Morris  chair,  he 
rested  his  head  against  the  back  and  went  off  into  a 
spasm  of  laughter  which,  albeit  noiseless,  yet  brought 
the  tears  to  his  blue  eyes. 

" Rob,  hush !  Do  hush !  She'll  hear  you,"  Day  be- 
sought him  in  terrified  accents,  for  her  one  brief  parley 
with  the  damsel  at  the  door  had  convinced  her  that, 
one  cheek  smitten,  there  would  be  no  meek  turning  of 
its  fellow  for  a  second  blow. 

But  Rob  laughed  on,  with  an  abandonment  of 
mirth  which  Day  was  far  from  sharing.  She  had  been 
able  to  see  but  one  of  the  elements  of  the  picture. 
However  humorous  might  be  the  pugnacious  damsel, 
taken  quite  by  herself,  she  gamed  an  added,  a  doubled 
humour  when  viewed  m  contrast  with  Day's  dainty, 
haughty  self. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  Day  urged  again, 
and,  this  time,  her  tone  showed  her  annoyance. 
"Who  is  this  awful  being,  Rob?" 

And  Rob  steadied  his  voice  just  long  enough  to 
answer,  - 

"That's  Phil." 

"Who  is  Phil?"  Day  demanded  shortly. 

"  Phyllis  Stayre." 

"Rob!    That  thing!    A  Stayre?" 

"Yes.     She  is  the  second  one." 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  Day  cast  a  horrified  and 
hurried  glance  about  the  room,  as  if  she  feared  lest 
other  and  similar  Stayres  might  be  lurking  in  unseen 
corners.  "Is  Sidney  like  her?" 


36  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Rob's  answering  tone  was  more  reassuring  than  his 
phrase,  — 

"Just  wait  and  see."  And,  suiting  the  action  to 
the  words,  he  settled  down  an  inch  or  two  lower  in 
the  shabby  Morris  chair. 

"I  suppose  we'll  have  to,"  poor  Day  admitted 
gloomily.  "Is  this  one  crazy,  Rob?" 

"No;  just  queer.  She'll  get  over  it  in  time;  she's 
bright  enough.  But  just  now  she  is  in  the  stage 
where  she  thinks  it  is  rather  smart  to  pose  as  the 
Ugly  Duckling;  she'll  cut  her  wisdom  teeth,  some 
day,"  Rob  predicted  placidly.  "I  was  hoping  you'd 
see  her.  She  doesn't  always  show  herself.  What  do 
you  think  of  her,  Day?" 

Day  shuddered. 

"Terrible!  Do  you  suppose  she  will  come  back?" 
Uneasily  she  looked  over  her  shoulder.  "But  you 
never  told  me  about  her,  Rob." 

"Couldn't,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"Why  not?" 

"Words  couldn't  do  her  justice.  Besides,"  he  so- 
bered a  little;  "it  wouldn't  have  been  fair  to  Sidney." 

But  Day  held  up  her  hand. 

"Hush!"  she  whispered.  "I  hear  her  coming.  Do 
speak  to  her,  Rob.  I  don't  dare." 

Rob  nodded  reassuringly;  but  Day's  eyes  were  still 
full  of  alarm,  as  she  faced  the  door,  braced  in  her 
chair,  meanwhile,  as  if  to  receive  another  onslaught. 
Then  of  a  sudden  the  fear  left  her  eyes,  and  she  found 
herself  on  her  feet,  her  hand  extended  and  her  poise 


DAY;  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  37 

alert  with  pleasure.  In  place  of  the  pugnacious, 
checked-gingham  Cerberus,  there  had  come  hurrying 
down  the  stairs  and  into  the  room  a  tall  girl  of  seven- 
teen, slim  and  graceful,  her  eager  face  alight  with 
pleasure  and  both  hands  held  out  in  glad  greeting. 

"Rob!  What  joy  to  see  you  look  so  well!  And 
this  is  Day?  I  can't  call  you  Miss  Argyle;  Rob  has 
talked  of  you  too  often,  and  I'm  used  to  the  other 
name.  How  good  it  is  to  see  you!  Do  sit  down." 
And,  with  swift  dexterity,  Sidney  drew  three  chairs 
into  a  cozy  group  and  popped  Day  down  into  the 
easiest  of  the  three. 

Like  most  girls  of  her  age,  Day  received  impres- 
sions swiftly.  Unlike  most  girlish  impressions,  how- 
ever, those  of  Day  were  fairly  permanent.  In  all  her 
after  years,  years  when  her  friendship  for  Sidney 
Stayre  was  ripening  to  its  best  maturity,  she  never 
quite  lost  the  memory  of  her  first  picture  of  Sidney, 
of  the  strong  and  happy  face,  of  the  tall,  slim  figure 
hi  its  simple  gown  of  cool  gray  linen  touched  here  and 
there  with  a  dash  of  tawny  yellow.  To  Day,  watch- 
ing and  leaping  to  swift  judgment,  it  seemed  that 
Sidney's  character  was  like  her  gown,  cool  and  firm 
and  dainty,  and  dashed  with  brilliancy  withal.  And 
then,  just  as  the  girl's  critical  sense  was  fast  leaving 
her  and  she  was  about  to  give  herself  over  wholly  to 
her  hostess,  she  heard  Sidney  saying  to  her  brother, 
as  she  took  away  his  hat  and  stick,  — 

"And,  best  of  all,  Rob,  you're  getting  to  where  you 
carry  this  for  ornament." 


38  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

The  words  were  nothing;  but  the  tone,  and  the  look 
in  the  keen  brown  eyes  won  Day's  heart  completely. 
This  was  the  Sidney  of  whom  Rob  had  so  often  talked, 
kindly  and  strong  and  heedful  of  the  weakness  of 
others.  Ten  minutes  later,  in  a  pause  of  the  rapid 
talk,  Day  found  herself  wondering  why  she  had  not 
made  this  call,  four  months  before. 

"And  you  really  want  me  to  spend  two  nights  at 
Heatherleigh?"  Sidney  said,  as  her  guests  rose  to  go 
away.  "I'd  love  it  of  all  things.  It  seems  as  if  I 
couldn't  settle  down  in  the  city  quite  so  soon.  This 
will  give  me  another  breath  of  outside  air." 

"If  you  are  very  anxious  about  it,  you  might  bring 
Bungay,"  Rob  suggested. 

Sidney  laughed. 

"Fate  forbid!  I've  had  my  fill  of  his  society  for 
the  present.  By  the  way,  he  led  me  into  an  adven- 
ture with  a  friend  of  yours,  this  morning." 

"A  friend  of  mine?" 

"Yes.  He  said  his  name  was  Blanchard."  And 
Sidney  rapidly  sketched  the  outline  of  her  morning's 
experience. 

Rob  listened  with  manifest  approval. 

"Good  old  Jack!"  he  commented  at  length.  "That's 
exactly  like  him,  too,  always  looking  out  for  some  one 
else.  What  did  you  think  of  him,  Sidney?" 

"I  thought  he  was  a  dear,"  she  answered,  with  the 
quick  enthusiasm  which  seemed  so  characteristic 
of  her.  "Next  time  you  come,  you  must  tell  me  all 
about  him." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  39 

"Next  time  I  come,"  Rob  rejoined;  "I'll  bring 
him  with  me,  if  I  may,  and  let  him  speak  for  himself." 

"Bring  him,  of  course,"  Sidney  assented  promptly. 
"I'd  like  to  see  him  again." 

But  Day  broke  into  their  dialogue,  suddenly  and 
somewhat  to  Rob's  surprise. 

"So  glad  you  feel  that  way  about  him,  Sidney. 
You  said  he  was  coming  out  to  dinner  on  the  seven- 
teenth; didn't  you,  Rob?"  she  asked  calmly.  "You'll 
see  him  then.  And  it's  all  settled  that  Rob  is  to  call 
for  you,  the  sixteenth,  and  bring  you  out  to  Heather- 
leigh."  And,  nodding  a  friendly,  informal  good- by, 
she  led  the  way  down  the  steps.. 

Once  safely  in  the  street,  she  tucked  her  hand  into 
Rob's  arm. 

"Rob  Argyle,"  she  said  rebukingly;  "do  you  real- 
ize that  we  have  stayed  in  that  house  two  mortal 
hours?" 

Rob  Argyle  was  no  woman.  Nevertheless,  now 
he  stuck  his  hands,  stick  and  all,  into  his  pockets 
and  addressed  the  opposite  house. 

"I  told  you  so!"  quoth  Rob  Argyle. 


40  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

UMMER  lingered  late,  that  year.  Nevertheless, 
the  torrid  glare  of  a  September  afternoon  was 
powerless  to  render  Heatherleigh  uncomfortable. 
The  great  gray  bungalow  sprawled  over  the  grass 
and  among  the  rocky  ledges  which  border  the  north- 
ern edge  of  the  Sound  just  outside  the  twin  light- 
houses which  mark  the  entrance  to  the  New  York 
channel.  Behind  it  lay  extensive  lawns,  spotted 
with  the  paraphernalia  of  outdoor  sports,  for  Rob 
Argyle  had  been  an  enthusiastic  athlete  until  foot- 
ball had  cut  him  off  in  his  prime  and  driven  him 
to  seek  with  Day  the  milder  joys  of  golf  and  croquet. 
Mr.  Argyle  still  played  a  vigorous  game  of  tennis  and, 
this  last  spring,  Heatherleigh  had  swarmed  for  a  week 
with  a  small  army  of  men  rushing  to  completion  the 
nine-hole  links  where  Mr.  Argyle  and  his  son  and 
heir  nightly  strove  for  mastery.  At  the  left  of  the 
lawns,  a  thicket  of  young  trees  hid  the  stables;  at 
the  right,  the  elm-bordered  gravel  drive  led  to  the 
village,  half  a  mile  away. 

The  house  itself  occupied  the  whole  of  its  own 
rocky  point,  and,  before  it,  the  ledges  led  down,  step 
on  step,  to  the  very  water's  edge.  One  of  the  tiny 
packing  boxes  commonly  known  as  seashore  cottages 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  41 

could  have  been  set  down  inside  the  great,  shady 
veranda;  another  could  have  found  place  within  the 
living-room  which  was  all  windows  and  fireplace  and 
many-angled,  lofty  ceiling.  Behind  the  living-room, 
two  long  hallways  led  off  at  sharp  angles,  one  to  the 
wing  where  the  family  bedrooms  faced  the  eastern 
sea,  the  other  past  the  dining-room  and  butler's 
pantry  to  the  kitchen  and  the  servants'  wing  beyond 
the  shielding  wall  of  the  thicket.  Seen  from  afar, 
the  irregular  gray  roofs,  the  shingled  walls  and  the 
chimneys  of  brown  rubble  seemed  a  natural  part  of 
the  lichen-covered  rocks  on  which  they  rested. 

Out  on  the  lawn,  the  sun  was  blazing  fiercely  down, 
and  the  white  disks  of  the  clock-golf  caught  the  light 
sharply  and  blazed  with  answering  gleam.  Up  on 
the  veranda,  however,  there  was  a  grateful  shade, 
and  the  sea-breeze  swept  across  it  from  end  to  end, 
fluttering  Day's  muslin  skirts  and  ruffling  her  hair 
into  a  vivid  halo  about  her  eager  face.  On  Day's 
knee  rested  an  open  book;  but  Day's  hands  were 
crossed  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  she  lay  back  in 
her  chair  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  distant  vista 
of  the  elm-arched  drive,  watching  for  the  first  glimpse 
of  her  coming  guest. 

"Let  the  child  have  her  way,"  Mr.  Argyle  had 
bidden  his  wife,  the  night  after  Day  had  revealed 
her  plan  for  her  remarkable  birthday  party  of  two. 

"But  I  have  never  seen  the  girl,"  Mrs.  Argyle  made 
natural  objection. 

"Rob  has,"  her  husband  reminded  her. 


42  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"I  know,  and  I  am  grateful,"  Mrs.  Argyle  assented 
quickly.  "I've  no  doubt  of  her  being  fully  their 
equal  hi  character.  So,  for  the  matter  of  that,  is 
Jack  Blanchard.  Still,  —  " 

Her  husband  looked  up,  caught  her  eye,  smiled  and 
nodded.  Then  he  took  up  her  interrupted  phrase. 

"Still,  you  mean,  they  aren't  exactly  of  our  own 
set.  I  know  they  aren't;  and  yet  —  In  his  turn, 
he  left  the  phrase  in  suspension. 

"And  yet?"  his  wife  urged  on  his  lagging  speech. 

He  roused  himself,  rose  to  his  feet  and  began  pacing 
the  floor. 

"And  yet,  I  suspect  they  are  fully  the  equals,  not 
of  our  own  children,  of  course,  no  parents  would 
willingly  admit  that;  but  of  our  children's  friends. 
I  have  seen  Sidney;  I  know  Jack  from  start  to  finish. 
It  is  my  private  impression  that,  in  mind  and  manners 
and  morals,  they're  head  and  shoulders  above  the 
Paris  dolls  and  the  manikins  who  go  to  Rob's 
parties  and  Day's  dancing  class.  They  may  not  have 
so  much  money  nor  such  excellent  clothes;  but  they 
have  something  better,  good  red  blood  and  a  whole- 
some mind.  That's  what  we  need,  here  in  New 
York,  nowadays." 

"I  know,"  his  wife  agreed.  "And  yet,  one  can't 
forget  that  Jack  Blanchard — " 

"Who  wants  to  forget  it?"  Mr.  Argyle  interrupted 
her.  "It  was  the  manliest  thing  the  fellow  could  do. 
For  that  matter,  my  own  grandfather,  over  there 
in  Scotland,  used  to  shoe  the  doctor's  horse  and  then 

I 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  43 

rub  him  down,  in  payment  for  the  right  to  mess  in 
the  surgery.  The  fellows  who  work  are  the  fellows 
who  count.  Rob  never  would  have  been  half  the 
man  he  is,  if  he  hadn't  struck  up  this  friendship  with 
Jack  Blanchard." 

Mrs.  Argyle  shook  her  head,  and  doubt  lay  heavy 
in  her  eyes. 

"For  now,  yes.     But  what  about  the  future?" 

"The  future  can  take  care  of  itself.  Ten  years 
from  now,  Blanchard  may  be  director  of  a  dozen 
railroads,  and  Rob  may  be  keeping  books  in  the 
office  of  one  of  them.  It  is  impossible  to  read  on 
the  cards  quickly  enough  to  do  any  good,  when 
American  business  hands  are  shuffling  the  pack. 
Let  the  future  see  to  itself,  dear,  and,  meanwhile,  do 
your  best  to  make  Day's  birthday  all  the  child 
dreams  for  it.  For  my  part,  I  like  her  spirit  in 
cutting  free  from  the  trite  old  lines."  And  Mr. 
Argyle,  pausing  behind  his  wife's  chair,  tilted  up 
her  face  and  dropped  upon  it  one  of  the  caresses 
which  still  remained  from  their  honeymoon,  a  round 
score  of  years  ago. 

And  now  Rob,  with  Sidney's  suitcase  in  his  hand, 
was  leading  the  way  out  one  of  the  interminable 
walks  of  the  Grand  Central  Station.  Behind  him 
Sidney,  hi  her  shaggy  brown  pongee  frock  and  wide 
brown  hat,  kept  an  alert  eye  upon  her  escort,  noting 
with  friendly  interest  that  he  was  fast  outgrowing 
the  old-time  limp  left  from  his  strain,  and,  mean- 
while, taking  a  girlish  satisfaction  that,  on  the  whole 


44  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

length  of  platform,  there  was  no  one  who  could  be 
compared  to  Rob  Argyle.  To  be  sure,  Sidney  was 
inclined  to  be  partial,  especially  upon  a  day  which 
was  bidding  fair  to  bring  her  so  much  of  happiness. 
Nevertheless,  to  a  most  critical  eye,  Rob  Argyle 
would  have  held  his  own  in  any  crowd. 

Seated  in  the  train,  with  the  suitcase  tucked  away 
under  their  feet,  Sidney  turned  to  Rob  almost  at  once. 

"You  were  going  to  tell  me  about  Mr.  Blanchard," 
she  reminded  him  then. 

Rob  waved  a  dissenting  hand  to  the  boy  who  was 
poking  a  purple  box  of  Huyler  into  his  face. 

"What  is  there  to  tell?"  he  asked  evasively. 

Sidney  rested  the  toe  of  one  brown  suede  shoe 
upon  the  suitcase  and  stared  down  at  the  combina- 
tion intently.  The  shoes  had  been  the  long-coveted 
gift  of  a  recent  birthday;  nevertheless,  just  now, 
her  mind  ignored  them  completely. 

"How  you  happened  to  know  him  so  well,"  she 
said  at  length. 

"Why  not?" 

"He  told  me  he  had  been  a  Pullman  conductor," 
Sidney  reminded  him  demurely. 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

The  girl  lifted  her  eyes  and  flashed  upon  her  com- 
panion one  swift  glance  of  mingled  amusement  and 
approval. 

"Nothing;  only  you  didn't  always  feel  that  way." 

To  her  surprise,  Rob  coloured  hotly.  Then  he 
sought  to  justify  himself. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  45 

"Oh,  come  now;  I'm  not  an  out  and  out  snob," 
he  said  defensively.  , 

"No,"  Sidney  made  honest  answer;  "you  aren't. 
I  only  used  to  be  afraid  you  would  be." 

He  coloured  again,  and  his  dark  blue  eyes,  fixed 
on  the  vistas  of  fluttering  clotheslines  which  opened 
out  along  the  track,  showed  that  her  words  had  hurt 
him  more  than  he  would  have  cared  to  admit.  Sid- 
ney caught  the  look,  interpreted  it  aright  and,  after 
her  own  straightforward  fashion,  made  prompt  expres- 
sion of  her  penitence. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,  Rob,  and  take  me  all 
wrong,"  she  said  directly.  "Perhaps  I  only  meant 
to  tease.  Anyway,  I  spoke  before  I  thought.  But 
you  do  know,"  and  her  laugh  was  so  cajoling  that 
Rob  laughed  too  in  sympathy;  "but  you  do  know 
you  used  to  be  very  finicky  about  your  friends." 

To  her  surprise,  the  laugh  died  quickly  out  of  Rob's 
blue  eyes,  and  he  answered  with  an  earnestness  which 
made  her  heart  give  a  sharp  throb  of  admiration, — 

"Perhaps.  But  I  think  I  am  a  good  deal  more 
finicky  now,  and  that  is  the  reason  I  am  so  glad  to 
hang  on  to  Jack." 

"Tell  me  all  about  him,  then,"  Sidney  urged,  in  a 
tone  which  reflected  something  of  his  gravity.  "Is 
he  the  man  you  wrote  about,  the  man  who  took 
such  care  of  you,  when  Day  was  ill?" 

Rob  nodded,  while,  for  a  moment,  his  eyes  looked 
beyond  the  long  ranks  of  white  brick  walls  to  the 
snowbound  Canadian  fields,  to  the  icebound  Cana- 


46  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

dian  river  which,  fields  and  river  and  snow  and  ice, 
all  had  seemed  leagued  together  to  prevent  his  journey 
northward  to  the  distant  city  where  Day  was  lying 
at  the  point  of  death.  These  formed  the  background 
of  the  picture.  Before  them,  dominating  them  at 
every  point,  was  a  broad-shouldered  young  man  in 
blue,  beneath  whose  visored  cap  a  pair  of  keen  brown 
eyes  looked  steadily,  kindly  into  Rob's  own.  He 
roused  himself  with  an  effort. 

"That  wasn't  all,"  he  answered  Sidney.  "I  had 
seen  him  twice  before,  once  when  I  first  went  up; 
and  I  had  liked  him  at  the  start.  That  day,  though, 
he  told  me  about  himself.  You  know  we  were  twelve 
hours  late,  and  I  was  the  only  passenger,  so  we  were 
bound  to  be  friends  or  foes,  before  we  landed.  At 
first,  I  couldn't  make  him  out;  he  wasn't  like  any 
Pullman  conductor  I  had  ever  seen  before.  Later,  I 
understood.  His  father  was  a  retired  army  man, 
captain,  I  think.  This  only  son  was  in  one  of  those 
little  Canadian  universities,  when  the  Boer  war  broke 
out.  As  a  matter  of  course,  he  went  out  with  the  first 
contingent.  He  brought  home  a  couple  of  medals  and 
a  scar  in  his  leg,  and,  up  to  the  day  before  he  sailed, 
he  expected  to  go  back  to  finish  his  course." 

"Why  didn't  he?" 

Sidney's  practical  question  broke  in  upon  the 
memories  which  were  sweeping  over  Rob  once  more. 
He  was  telling  it  badly,  baldly.  It  all  had  seemed  so 
tragically  real,  heard  from  Jack's  own  lips.  For 
Jack's  own  sake,  Rob  wished  he  had  left  him  to  tell 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  47 

Sidney  the  story,  only  Jack,  as  a  rule,  saw  no  need 
of  focussing  attention  upon  himself. 

"  Because  his  father  had  died.  He  had  been  very 
ill,  an  operation  and  two  nurses,  and  there  was  no 
more  money,  not  even  for  the  mother.  Jack  sailed 
for  England,  next  day.  The  same  night  he  reached 
England,  he  took  steerage  for  home;  the  day  after  he 
reached  home,  he  took  the  first  work  that  offered 
itself.  He  did  it  well,  too.  After  my  father  had 
arranged  for  his  coming  home  with  us,  one  of  the 
men  up  there  tried  to  bribe  him  to  come  back,  told 
my  father  that  Jack  was  the  best  all-round  man  who 
had  ever  run  into  Quebec." 

"And  now?"  Sidney  queried. 

While  Rob  had  been  speaking,  she  had  sat  with  her 
eyes  fixed  intently  upon  his  face,  watching  his  ear- 
nest, eager  absorption  in  his  theme.  For  the  time 
being,  however,  Rob  Argyle  was  wholly  oblivious  of 
the  girl  at  his  side;  his  whole  mind  was  upon  Jack, 
and  Sidney  was  of  no  more  personal  account  than  is 
the  corner  post-box  wherein  one  drops  his  letters. 

"Now  he  is  climbing  up  my  father's  office,  and 
winning  the  liking  of  the  very  men  he  is  climbing 
over,"  Rob  said  tersely. 

Sidney  frowned  in  sudden  disapproval. 

"I  don't  like  that,"  she  objected. 

Rob  corrected  his  phrase. 

"Climbing  past,  I  ought  to  say.  He  holds  out  a 
helping  hand  to  every  man  he  passes  on  the  road." 

Rob  fell  silent,  and  Sidney  drew  a  long  breath. 


48  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Then,  turning  slightly,  she  rested  her  elbow  on  the 
window  ledge  and  bent  on  Rob  a  thoughtful  gaze. 

"Rob,"  she  said  slowly  at  length;  "you've  grown 
a  lot.  You  see  straighter,  too,  than  you  used  to  do. 
Who  opened  your  eyes?" 

But  already  Rob  had  dismissed  his  earnestness 
and  had  returned  to  his  usual  jovial  self. 

"Growed;  have  I?"  he  queried  gayly.  "Perhaps  I 
took  a  boost  from  knowing  Ronald  Leslie." 

And  you,  he  longed  to  add  hi  perfect  truth.  Never- 
theless, Rob  Argyle  was  shrewd  enough  to  know  that 
even  truth  like  that  would  be  too  direct  for  a  girl  like 
Sidney  Stayre.  Instead,  he  picked  up  his  stick  and 
stooped  for  the  suitcase,  for  the  train  was  slackening 
its  speed  and,  far  away  to  the  right  upon  its  rocky 
ledges,  the  gray  walls  and  brown  chimneys  of  Heath- 
erleigh  were  just  coming  into  sight. 

"I  do  think  this  is  the  most  perfect  day  I  have 
ever  spent,"  Sidney  said  contentedly,  the  next  night. 

Out  of  deference  to  the  full  moon  which  was  laying 
a  golden  trail  across  the  restless  waves,  dinner  had 
been  served  early,  that  night;  and  now,  though  the 
west  was  still  blazing  with  the  afterglow,  the  Argyle 
yacht  was  already  far  out  in  the  mid-channel,  beating 
lazily  to  and  fro  before  the  light  evening  breeze. 
The  day  had  begun  early,  and  it  had  been  filled  to 
overflowing,  pleasure  following  hard  upon  the  heels 
of  pleasure  from  the  moment  when  the  bundle-laden 
breakfast  table  had  brought  to  Sidney  her  first  inti- 
mation of  Day's  especial  claim  upon  the  day. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  49 

No  matter  who  might  be  their  guests,  the  Argyles 
never  deviated  from  certain  long-established  customs. 
Each  family-birthday  breakfast  was  eaten  from  flower- 
wreathed  plates,  each  place  at  table  received  its  own 
souvenir  of  the  day. 

"We  give  each  other  presents,  you  see,  so  they'll 
be  sure  to  be  glad  we  were  born,"  Day  had  made 
infant  explanation  to  one  mystified  guest.  "They 
might  not  think  so  much  about  it,  unless  we  reminded 
them,  every  time." 

But  Sidney  Stayre,  that  night  in  her  own  room, 
confessed  to  herself  that  there  would  have  been  no 
need  of  the  pink  paper  parcel  beside  her  own  plate  to 
make  her  glad  that  Day  was  born. 

From  breakfast,  they  had  gone  directly  to  the 
tennis  court  where  the  game  was  wellnigh  spoiled  for 
both  the  girls  by  Rob's  need  to  stand  aside  and  act 
as  referee. 

"Too  bad;  isn't  it?"  Day  said  to  her  adversary,  in 
a  swift  aside  delivered  across  the  net.  "But  you 
know  he  was  one  of  the  best  football  players  they've 
ever  had  at  Exeter." 

And  Sidney  nodded.  She  too  had  had  a  kinsman 
at  Exeter.  She  too  had  heard  the  tales  of  Rob's 
great  prowess.  Unlike  Day,  however,  she  was  loath 
to  believe  that  past  glory,  no  matter  how  great, 
could  make  amends  for  present  deprivations.  It  was 
now  almost  two  years  since  Rob  Argyle  had  gone 
down  in  the  heart  of  a  scrimmage.  For  six  months 
of  that  time,  Sidney  Stayre  had  known  him;  yet  even 


50  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

now  she  could  not  watch  with  careless  eyes  the  little 
limp  which  still  remained  to  remind  him  of  that  fall. 

The  three-seated  surrey  came  around,  that  after- 
noon, when  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  station,  and  the 
three  young  people  were  waiting  for  it,  as  it  drove  to 
the  veranda  steps.  Rob  lost  no  time  in  stowing  Sid- 
ney away  on  the  back  seat. 

"Day  can  look  out  for  Jack,"  he  explained,  as  he 
took  his  place  at  Sidney's  side;  "and  my  father 
always  wants  to  drive  home,  himself.  Sic  'em, 
James!  I  hear  the  whistle."  And,  the  next  instant, 
their  ears  were  full  of  the  hum  of  the  grinding  gravel. 

From  over  her  plate,  Sidney  eyed  Jack  keenly,  that 
night.  All  hi  all,  he  bore  her  scrutiny  well.  To  be 
sure,  after  her  own  experience  of  his  kindness,  after 
Rob's  story  of  his  sturdy,  independent  pluck,  it  would 
have  been  impossible  for  her  to  have  viewed  him  with 
unfriendly  eyes.  Nevertheless,  as  they  left  the  table, 
Sidney  told  herself  that  Jack  Blanchard  would  be 
worth  the  knowing.  Even  beside  Rob  Argyle,  he 
held  his  own  completely.  Never  were  two  young 
fellows  more  different  to  the  outward  view.  Never- 
theless, Sidney  Stayre,  knowing  one  of  them  and 
watching  the  other  intently,  was  assured  that  at 
heart  they  were  next  of  kin.  Rob  would  be  always 
Rob;  but,  on  many  a  point,  Jack  would  prove  him- 
self Rob's  foster  brother.  It  was  with  a  cordial  smile 
of  welcome  that  she  pulled  aside  her  skirt  to  make 
room  for  Jack,  as  they  took  their  places  in  the  yacht, 
a  half -hour  later. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  51 

They  lingered  long  out  on  the  water,  lingered  until 
the  last  of  the  evening  boats  had  passed  them  and 
vanished  down  the  Sound.  At  last,  however,  Mr. 
Argyle  set  the  sail  for  home.  For  one  reason  or 
another,  they  talked  little,  as  the  boat  turned  her 
back  to  the  moon  and  danced  over  the  tumbling 
waves  towards  the  distant  lights  of  Heatherleigh. 
Side  by  side  in  the  bow,  Rob  and  Sidney  watched  the 
water  slidirtg  darkly  past  them,  watched  the  long 
ribbons  of  light  that  came  stretching  out  as  if  to  bind 
them  to  the  shore.  All  of  a  sudden,  Rob  began 
whistling  softly  to  himself  and,  an  instant  later, 
humming  low,  Sidney  took  up  the  refrain.  Together, 
they  finished  it  to  its  very  end.  Then  Rob  asked,  — 

"You  know  it,  too,  Sidney?" 

She  nodded. 

"Ronald  taught  me." 

"Good  old  Ronald!"  Rob's  voice  was  full  of  quiet 
enthusiasm.  "Don't  you  wish  he  were  here  now?" 

And,  meanwhile,  Mr.  Argyle  was  asking,  under 
cover  of  the  sound  of  the  splashing  waves,  — 

"Well,  Day,  has  it  been  a  success?" 

And  Day's  answer  came  back  to  him  full  of  dreamy 
content,  — 

"Beautiful,  Daddy.  Next  year,  we'll  do  it  all  over 
again." 

But  Jack,  at  her  other  side,  was  heedless  of  her 
words.  For  the  moment,  his  whole  mind  was  fixed 
on  Mrs.  Argyle  who,  obedient  to  some  womanish 
instinct,  was  speaking  to  him  of  his  mother. 


52  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

A  T  fourteen,  Phyllis  Stayre  had  her  mind  so  fixed 
-*-*-  upon  the  reformation  of  the  world  that  she 
neglected  to  question  whether  there  was  any  room  for 
reformation  in  her  own  self.  Moreover,  she  went 
at  the  matter  of  reformation  with  the  same  uncom- 
promising hands  that  tugged  her  brown  hair  away 
from  her  freckled  face  and  tied  it  with  a  tight  knot 
of  the  blue  ribbon  which  by  rights  she  should  have 
avoided.  Had  she  been  quite  frank  with  herself, 
Phyllis  would  have  acknowledged  a  passionate  love 
of  beauty  for  beauty's  sake,  an  almost  passionate 
regret  that  it  had  been  denied  to  her.  Instead  of 
acknowledging,  and  of  making  the  best  of  what  few 
good  points  had  fallen  to  her  lot,  poor  Phyllis  seemed 
to  take  an  obstinate  delight  in  uglifying  herself  to 
the  utmost  possible  degree.  She  dressed  in  dull 
browns  and  muddy  blues,  cut  in  unlovely  and  utili- 
tarian lines.  Ruffles,  she  said,  made  her  nervous, 
and  it  was  too  much  trouble  to  fluff  her  hair  and 
keep  white  things  in  her  sleeves.  She  could  spend 
her  time,  she  averred,  in  more  profitable  fashion.  In 
a  family  such  as  theirs,  some  one  must  do  the 
practical  things.  Then,  with  an  accusing  shake  of 
her  duster,  she  vanished  from  the  room,  leav- 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  53 

ing  Sidney,  trim  and  dainty  in  her  simple  gown, 
to  rearrange  the  furniture  and  ornaments,  which 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  swept  about  by  a 
cyclone. 

"I  don't  see,  myself,  why  it  is  necessary  to  look  a 
fright,  because  you  are  useful,"  Sidney  protested  to 
the  empty  walls. 

Phyllis  reappeared  upon  the  threshold. 

"You  had  three  clean  shirtwaists  come  out  of  the 
wash,  this  very  week,"  she  retorted. 

"Certainly." 

"Well,  I  can't,  then.  It's  not  right  to  put  so  much 
on  Mary." 

Sidney  removed  the  Rookwood  pitcher  which,  for 
the  convenience  of  her  duster,  Phyllis  had  set  on  top 
of  the  clock  and  neglected  to  take  down.  Then  she 
crossed  to  the  table,  put  the  cover  right  side  up  and 
broke  off  the  threads  left  dangling  from  Phyllis's 
recent  snapping. 

"I  feel  I  must  wear  plain,  dark  things  that  don't 
want  washing,  every  other  minute,"  Phyllis  repeated 
virtuously,  though  with  an  angry  eye  upon  Sidney's 
reconstructive  measures. 

"And  I  feel  as  if  I'd  rather  have  the  dirt  show,  so 
I  can  tell  when  it  needs  washing  off,"  Sidney  made 
tranquil  answer. 

"That's  all  very  well  for  you;  but  what  about 
Mary?"  Phyllis  demanded,  in  a  tone  befitting  the 
founder  of  a  working  girls'  protective  union. 

And  Sidney  once  more  made  tranquil  answer,  — 


54  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"I  always  wash  the  Monday  morning  dishes,  and 
I  iron  my  things,  myself." 

Phyllis  sniffed. 

"You  can  do  asvou  choose.  For  my  part,  I  think 
there  are  more  important  things  in  life  than  ironing 
frills  and  furbelows." 

"What?" 

But  Phyllis  fled,  rather  than  reply  to  the  impas- 
sive question. 

There  were  seven  young  Stayres,  with  Sidney  and 
Phyllis  at  the  top  of  the  flight.  Only  the  accident 
of  years  and  parentage  could  ever  have  brought  the 
two  sisters  into  contact,  however;  and,  for  the  most 
part,  they  went  their  separate  ways.  When  they 
met,  Phyllis  was  in  the  likeness  of  a  psychological 
hedgehog;  but  Sidney  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
endowed  with  a  sense  of  humour  sufficient  to  cope 
even  with  such  a  problem  as  that  afforded  by  her 
young  sister.  She  treated  Phyllis  and  her  whims 
as  an  embodied  joke,  and  parried  her  quills  with  a 
good-tempered  laughter  which  left  the  domestic 
porcupine  in  a  mood  of  speechless  indignation. 

From  these  one-sided  contests,  Sidney  always 
emerged  with  unruffled  calm.  Long  since,  she  had 
dismissed  all  feeling  of  responsibility  for  the  vagaries 
of  her  younger  sister.  Her  fourteen  years'  experi- 
ence had  taught  her  to  accept  Phyllis  as  an  established 
fact,  a  law  unto  herself,  unmodified  and  unmodifiable. 
On  most  similar  points,  Sidney  Stayre's  conscience 
was  acute;  but  Phyllis  she  left  to  go  her  ways  hi  peace. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  55 

As  a  rule,  Phyllis's  way  was  a  lonely  one.  The 
girl  made  few  friends;  she  was  intimate  with  no  one 
of  the  circle  of  her  own  kin,  save  for  her  dreamy, 
unpractical  father  whom  she  loved  with  the  whole 
passion  of  her  girlish  nature.  She  coddled  him  and 
fussed  over  him  with  an  almost  maternal  care,  she 
made  good  his  absent-minded  omissions  and,  when- 
ever he  was  mentioned,  she  adopted  a  defensive 
tone  as  grotesque  in  its  over-zealous  loyalty  as  in  its 
needlessness.  Had  the  sole  impression  of  Mr.  Stayre 
been  gained  from  the  utterances  of  his  second  daugh- 
ter, there  would  have  been  a  wide-spread  theory  that 
he  was  an  ill-used  and  henpecked  man,  and  not,  as 
in  fact  he  was,  the  spoiled  idol  of  the  entire  family. 
Phyllis  fought  for  him,  and  hunted  up  his  neckties 
when  he  pulled  them  off,  late  at  night,  to  serve  as 
markers  for  his  bedtime  books.  Nevertheless,  it 
was  Sidney  who  had  made  the  neckties  in  the  first 
place,  deftly  fashioning  them  from  the  unworn  frag- 
ments of  her  mother's  old  black  silk  frock  and  con- 
triving to  endow  them  with  the  hall  mark  of  a  famous 
haberdasher. 

The  Stayres  next  below  Phyllis  chanced  to  be  two 
boys.  Tom,  the  older,  was  a  delicate  and  dreamy 
boy,  his  father's  child  for  whom,  illogically  enough, 
Phyllis  had  scanty  patience.  The  younger  one,  a 
healthy  imp  of  eleven,  had  long  since  taken  his  older 
sister  as  his  own  chief  joke,  and  rendered  her  life  a 
burden  to  her  daily.  Just  why  the  parental  Stayres 
had  christened  this  urchin  Nathan,  it  would  be  hard 


56  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

to  say.  Certainly  the  ancestral  deacon  whose  name 
he  bore,  would  have  squirmed  in  his  grave,  had  he 
seen  this  recent  bud  upon  the  family  tree.  Nathan 
he  was  in  theory  only,  however;  but  not  in  fact. 
Sidney's  first  horrified  sight  of  his  infant  nose  had 
led  her  to  dub  him  Pugs,  and  the  name  had  clung  to 
him,  to  the  utter  exclusion  of  the  more  orthodox 
Nathan.  Pugs  accepted  it  all,  his  own  personality 
included,  as  a  part  of  the  world-wide  joke  of  things 
which  he  was  prone  to  regard  as  having  been  created 
for  his  own  special  delectation;  and  his  first  day  of 
school  life  had  been  marked  and  marred  by  a  fray 
with  his  teacher  who  had  declined  to  accept  Pugs 
as  a  suitable  and  sufficient  name,  and  had  sent  him 
home  in  search  of  something  more  befitting  her  official 
register. 

Below  Pugs  were  twin  girls,  while  Bungay  brought 
up  the  rear  and  closed  the  long  column  of  the  family 
record  under  the  wholly  unused  name  of  Maurice. 
Such  was  the  Stayre  family;  and  it  might  have  been 
supposed  that  it  would  have  crammed  to  the  full 
the  narrow  limits  of  the  brown-stone  front.  Never- 
theless, only  a  year  before,  by  means  of  judicious 
packing,  a  room  had  been  found  for  an  older  cousin, 
Wade  Winthrop,  whose  promise  of  a  brilliant  career 
hi  his  own  profession  had  been  cut  short  by  a  pair 
of  doubtful  lungs.  Accordingly,  Boston  was  one 
law  office  the  less,  and  Wade  had  come  to  New 
York  to  play  at  being  reporter  on  the  evening  paper 
in  whose  official  sanctum  Mr.  Stayre  had  place. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  57 

And  Wade  loved  his  cousin  Sidney  with  a  complete 
absorption  which  had  made  him  wellnigh  oblivious 
of  the  very  existence  of  Sidney's  sister,  Phyllis. 
And  Phyllis,  on  her  side,  could  have  laid  her  girlish 
heart  at  Wade's  feet,  if  only  he  would  have  given  her 
the  slightest  encouragement.  Unfortunately,  how- 
ever, up  to  now,  such  encouragement  had  been 
wholly  lacking. 

On  the  day  of  Sidney's  return  from  Heatherleigh, 
Phyllis's  eye  was  at  a  crack  of  the  curtains  when 
Sidney  came  up  the  street,  and  Phyllis's  hand  was  on 
the  doorknob  when  Sidney  parted  from  Rob  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps. 

"Well,  home  again?"  was  her  curt  salutation. 

"Yes.  Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?"  The  echo 
of  her  own  good  tune  was  still  in  Sidney's  voice. 

Phyllis  disdained  conventional  compliments. 

"Had  a  good  time?" 

"Beautiful.    I  wish  you  had  been  there,  Phyllis." 

"They  didn't  ask  me." 

"No;    but  I  wish  they  had." 

"Shouldn't  have  gone,  if  they  had,"  Phyllis  replied 
still  more  curtly. 

"I  don't  see  why  not." 

"I  hate  being  patronized,"  Phyllis  made  lofty 
response. 

"But  the  Argyles  don't  patronize  me." 

"Yes;  they  do,  too,"  was  the  disconcerting  re- 
joinder; "only  you  are  so  tickled  with  them  that  you 
haven't  the  independence  to  notice  it." 


58  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Oh."  Sidney's  mind  ranged  in  order  the  events 
of  the  past  two  days,  and  then  ran  over  the  order 
in  swift  review.  The  novel  viewpoint  appealed  to 
her  whole  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  since,  to  her  down- 
right mind,  so  long  as  she  behaved  herself  and  lived 
up  to  her  inherited  lights,  she  was  by  no  means  a 
candidate  for  patronage.  Then,  after  one  irrepres- 
sible burst  of  laughter,  she  dismissed  the  subject, 
without  troubling  herself  to  combat  Phyllis's  last 
notion. 

"Has  anything  happened,  since  I  went  away?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes."  With  a  sudden  shifting  of  key,  Phyllis 
dropped  her  voice  to  a  melancholy  minor. 

"What?    Nothing  bad,  I  hope." 

"Oh,  nothing  to  speak  of.  One  of  the  twins," 
as  a  general  rule,  Phyllis  was  wont  to  allude  to  her 
younger  sisters  in  this  impersonal  fashion;  "fell 
down  the  back  steps  and  almost  broke  her  arm. 
Then  Tom  had  a  chill,  yesterday;  to-day,  mother 
is  down  with  headache." 

Sidney's  face  changed. 

"Oh,  Phil!"  she  said  reproachfully.  "Why  didn't 
you  send  for  me?" 

"I  wanted  to,"  Phyllis  responded  virtuously.  "I 
knew  your  place  was  here;  but  father  wouldn't 
listen  to  a  word  about  it.  It  was  Mary's  day  out, 
too;  but  Wade  took  his  supper  down  town  at  the 
club,  so  we  managed  to  drudge  along  somehow." 
And  Phyllis  heaved  a  patient  sigh. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  59 

Sidney  bit  her  lip  and  pulled  off  her  gloves  with  a 
jerk.  Phyllis  eyed  her  furtively,  the  while. 

"You'll  tear  your  gloves,  if  you're  not  careful," 
she  admonished  her  sister  in  an  accent  that  was  just 
too  chastened  to  be  pert. 

But  swiftly  Sidney  had  regained  control  of  herself. 

"  Then  I'll  mend  them  again.  Phil,  you  are  a  cheery 
soul  to  welcome  a  girl  when  she  comes  home." 

Phyllis  smoothed  back  her  hair  with  the  flat  of 
her  two  hands.  It  was  a  habit  she  had,  when  she 
felt  that  she  was  ready  to  score  a  final  point.  Sid- 
ney's hatred  of  the  habit,  however,  was  based  no 
more  upon  the  association  of  ideas  which  it  called 
forth  than  upon  the  curiously  unlovely  outline  of 
Phyllis's  head  after  it  had  undergone  the  smoothing 
process.  To  Sidney's  mind,  it  was  the  duty  of  every 
girl  to  make  herself  as  comely  as  possible,  and  then 
forget  her  looks  entirely. 

Phyllis  dropped  her  hands  from  her  hair,  and  faced 
her  sister  in  bullet-headed  self-righteousness. 

"It  seems  to  me,  if  you've  had  such  a  wonderful 
time  of  it  with  your  friends,  it  should  be  your  place 
to  bring  the  cheer  to  me,"  she  observed. 

And  Sidney  picked  up  her  suitcase  and  started  up 
the  stairs. 

Half  way  up  the  flight,  however,  Pugs  swept  down 
upon  her  with  a  bomblike  rush,  seized  her  suitcase 
and  then,  suitcase  and  all,  tumbled  headlong  into  her 
outstretched  arms. 

"Glory,    Tom!    Here's   Sid   come    back    again!" 


60  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

he  shrieked.  "Had  a  good  time?  Missed  you  like 
fury.  Didn't  Rob  send  me  something?  He  mostly 
does.  Mother  said  tell  her  as  soon  as  you  came  in. 
Phyllis  cleaned  the  hall  closet,  yesterday;  and  of 
course  mother's  all  done  up,  to-day.  I  say,  Sid, 
it's  awful,  when  you're  gone."  And  reluctantly  he 
yielded  his  place  to  Tom  and  then  to  Bungay  who 
stood  at  the  top  of  the  flight,  vociferously  demanding 
to  be  bear-hugged. 

And  Phyllis  below  put  her  chin  in  the  air  and 
marched  on  out  of  sight.  Alone  in  the  china  closet, 
though,  she  pulled  off  her  spectacles  and  wiped  them 
on  a  corner  of  Bungay's  bib,  while  she  muttered 
forlornly  to  herself,  — 

"I  don't  see  why  they  never  perform  over  me  like 
that." 

Wade  found  her  there,  when  he  came  in  early  from 
the  office  to  welcome  the  returned  wanderer.  Phyllis 
was  industriously  engaged  in  polishing  the  table 
spoons,  and  a  dab  of  whiting  on  one  cheek,  coupled 
with  her  red-rimmed  eyes  and  pink  and  swollen  nose, 
added  the  final  touch  of  unattractiveness  to  her  ap- 
pearance. Wade,  scrupulously  dainty  as  was  his 
custom,  felt  some  slight  shock  at  sight  of  the  dis- 
hevelled figure. 

"Oh,  I  thought  Sidney  was  here!"  he  said,  with 
uncomplimentary  directness.  And  he  started  to  go 
away. 

"She's  up-stairs."  Until  Phyllis  spoke,  she  had 
no  notion  how  hoarse  and  thick  her  voice  had  grown. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  61 

Averse  as  she  was  to  showing  any  outward  signs 
of  woe,  she  bit  off  her  final  word  abruptly. 

Wade  halted  and  looked  back. 

"What's  the  row,  Phil?"  he  queried  kindly.  "Been 
catching  cold?" 

"No." 

Wade  possessed  a  sister  of  his  own. 

"Have  you  been  crying?"  he  asked  shrewdly. 

"No."     But  Phyllis  gulped,  as  she  spoke. 

Wade  came  back,  crossed  the  threshold  and  stood 
looking  at  her  keenly. 

"You  may  as  well  own  up  to  it,  Phil,"  he  advised 
her.  "I've  seen  Judy,  and  I  know  all  the  signs. 
What's  been  the  rumpus?" 

"Nothing."  Phyllis  clattered  the  spoons  with  furi- 
ous zeal. 

"Well,  all  right.  If  nothing's  wrong,  I  can't  well 
offer  any  sympathy,"  Wade  made  philosophic  answer. 
"Where  is  Sidney,  then?" 

"I  told  you  she's  up-stairs,"  Phyllis  reiterated 
testily,  for  already  she  was  angry  at  herself  for  hav- 
ing repulsed  the  long-wished-for  sympathy.  "If  Sid- 
ney is  all  you  want,  I  do  wish  you'd  go  and  find  her." 

For  an  instant,  Wade  stared  at  his  young  cousin  in 
a  species  of  astoundment.  Phyllis  was  always  per- 
verse with  him;  but,  as  a  rule,  she  clothed  even  her 
perversity  with  stoic  calm,  and  showed  herself  su- 
perior, unruffled.  For  one  instant  more,  he  stood 
there,  hesitating;  then,  without  another  word,  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  went  in  search  of  Sidney. 


62  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

He  found  her  enthroned  upon  her  mother's  bed,  a 
twin  on  either  hand,  Bungay  in  her  lap  and  Pugs  fes- 
tooned across  her  shoulder,  while  she  gave  rapid 
account  of  the  events  of  the  past  two  days.  At  his 
knock,  however,  and  his  demand  for  admission,  she 
sprang  up,  ruthlessly  tumbling  the  children  this  way 
and  that,  as  she  hurried  forward  to  take  his  out- 
stretched hands. 

"Missed  me?"  she  demanded  promptly. 

Wade  Winthrop  was  twenty-eight,  and  dignified 
withal;  yet  now  he  looked  a  rollicking  boy,  as  he 
made  prompt  answer,  — 

"Not  one  smitch.  The  world  has  turned  to  chaff 
with  your  return." 

"  Dear  boy!  My  absence  has  gone  on  your  nerves," 
Sidney  said  mockingly.  "Come  and  sit  down  and 
hear  about  it  all.  I've  had  the  best  drives  and  sails, 
and  seen  the  loveliest  youth." 

"Rob?"  Wade  queried,  as  he  dropped  into  the 
nearest  chair. 

"No.    Mr.  Blanchard." 

"Oh!"  Wade  commented  briefly.  "Rob's  bantling." 

Sidney  laughed. 

"Yes,  just  about.  Dear  old  Rob  was  so  anxious 
that  he  should  make  a  good  impression  that  he  turned 
himself  into  a  veritable  showman.  Still,  Mr.  Blanch- 
ard really  is  nice.  You'd  never  think,  to  look  at 
him—" 

"Hush,  you  young  snob!"  Wade  cautioned  her. 
"After  the  way  you  lay  down  the  law  to  us,  it's  not 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  63 

fair  for  you  to  corrupt  us  again.  Blanchard  is  a 
good  fellow,  though.  I  saw  him  with  Rob,  one  day, 
and  liked  him  immensely.  Is  Rob  going  back  to 
Exeter?" 

''Not  this  fall.  I  don't  think  he  dares  trust  him- 
self in  sight  of  a  football  field,  and  his  father  isn't 
willing  he  should  take  any  risks.  He  will  have  a 
tutor,  as  soon  as  they  come  back  to  town." 

"And  what  of  Day?"  Wade  asked. 

Sidney's  answer  was  succinct. 

"  A  darling." 

"Rob's  equal?" 

Sidney  knitted  her  brows  thoughtfully. 

"  Yes  —  and  no.  On  the  whole,  no.  Not  many 
people  are.  She  is  younger,  and  a  girl;  that  may 
make  all  the  difference.  But  you  can  see  for  your- 
self." 

"How's  that?"  Wade  inquired,  as  he  leaned  for- 
ward to  seize  Bungay  and  swing  him  to  his  knee. 

"Because  I  solemnly  promised  Rob  I  would  bring 
you  out  to  spend  a  week  from  Sunday,"  Sidney  told 
him. 

Wade  raised  his  brows. 

"Rob?" 

"Yes,  Rob.  Mrs.  Argyle  invited  us  both,  of  course; 
but  Rob  insisted  on  my  accepting  for  you,  so  I  did. 
It  will  be  their  last  Sunday  there,  and  they  are  going 
to  have  some  other  people,  Mr.  Blanchard  and  two 
friends  of  Day.  I'm  a  little  bit  afraid  of  them,  too. 
Day  is  so  bright  and  off-hand  that  I  keep  forgetting 


64  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

how  elegant  she  really  is;  but  these  other  girls  may 
not  be  so  —  You  must  come,  Wade.  I  need  you  to 
protect  me." 

"That's  settled,  then."  Wade  laughed  at  her 
sudden  change  of  tone.  Then  he  asked  abruptly, 
"Sidney,  what's  wrong  with  Phil?" 

Sidney  rolled  Pugs  over  on  the  bed,  and  sat  on  his 
feet  to  keep  them  still.  Then  she  answered  non- 
chalantly, — 

"Why,  nothing;  is  there?" 

But  Wade  persisted. 

"Yes.  I  found  her  wailing  to  herself,  down  in  the 
china  closet.  Judging  by  the  hue  of  her  nose,  it  had 
been  going  on  for  some  time." 

"Phil  never  cries,"  Pugs  protested  suddenly.  "She 
says  it's  babyish  to  cry." 

The  fervour  of  his  assertion,  however,  aroused  Sid- 
ney's suspicions. 

"Have  you  been  teasing  her  again,  Pugs?"  she 
demanded. 

But  Pugs  was  able  to  prove  a  most  unsentimental 
alibi. 

"S'pose  I'd  go  off  and  fuss  with  Phil,  when  you  had 
only  just  come  home?"  he  demanded  in  his  turn. 

"Something  really  was  wrong,  Sidney,"  Wade  in- 
sisted anxiously.  "Phil  had  been  crying,  and  you 
know  she  never  cries.  I  tried  to  make  her  tell  me 
what  it  was;  but  I  couldn't  get  a  word  out  of  her.  I 
wonder  why  it  is  that  I  always  seem  to  rub  her  the 
wrong  way."  As  he  spoke,  the  boyishness  had  all 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  65 

left  his  face,  and  anxious  lines  traced  themselves 
about  his  kind  brown  eyes. 

Sidney  rose,  crossed  the  room  and  stood  leaning  on 
the  back  of  his  chair  where  she  slowly  drew  her  hands 
across  and  across  the  wrinkles  in  his  brow. 

"Wade  dear,"  she  said;  "have  you  lived  here  all 
this  time  without  learning  not  to  worry  about  Phil? 
She's  a  funny  child,  and  all  she  asks  of  any  of  us  is 
that  we  should  leave  her  to  go  her  own  way." 

Gently  he  reached  up,  took  her  two  hands  in  his 
strong,  lean  ones,  and  drew  her  down  until  he  could 
look  straight  into  her  eyes. 

''Are  you  quite  sure  of  that,  Sidney?"  he  asked 
gently  then.  Then,  letting  go  her  hands,  he  rose  and 
threw  one  arm  across  her  shoulder.  "Come,  Tids," 
he  added  blithely,  calling  her  by  an  old-time  name 
that  she  accepted  from  his  lips  alone;  "let's  go  down- 
stairs and  look  the  youngster  up." 

But,  by  the  time  they  reached  the  china  closet, 
Phyllis  had  vanished,  leaving  a  little  pile  of  half- 
cleaned  spoons  to  mark  where  she  had  been.  Only 
Tom,  sprawling  on  his  bed  with  his  eyes  glued  to  his 
book,  could  hear  the  stifled  sobs  that  came  from  the 
adjoining  room.  But  Tom's  mind  was  with  his  eyes. 
Hearing,  he  paid  no  heed. 


66  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  SIX 

IRLS  are  queer  things,  anyhow,"  Rob  observed 
sagely  to  Jack,  when  they  had  gone,  that 
Saturday  night,  to  Rob's  room  which  the  fulness  of 
the  house  made  it  necessary  for  them  to  share  in 
common. 

Jack  Blanchard  was  sitting  in  the  wide  window 
seat,  with  one  shoe  dangling  from  his  listless  hand, 
for  the  night  was  warm,  and  undressing  seemed  to 
his  indolent  mind  an  ordeal  to  be  delayed  as  long  as 
possible.  At  Rob's  words,  he  turned  from  a  con- 
templation of  the  starlit  heavens  to  face  his  host. 

"How  old  are  you,  Rob?"  he  queried,  with  grave 
irrelevance. 

"Seventeen,  last  year.  That  ought  to  make  me 
eighteen  now." 

A  suspicion  of  a  twinkle  came  into  Jack's  brown  eyes. 

"Has  it  taken  you  all  this  time  to  find  it  out?" 

"I  usually  have  a  bit  of  paper  handy,  when  I  do 
my  sums." 

"Fudge!  I  mean  about  the  girls.  It  was  the  first 
lesson  I  ever  learned;  I  took  it  while  I  was  still  in 
knickerbockers." 

"Who  taught  it  to  you?"  Rob  asked,  with  a  yawn 
which  obviously  detracted  nothing  from  his  interest. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  67 

"A  frilly  little  damsel  that  went  to  the  same 
school.  I  was  an  out  and  out  socialist  in  those  days, 
and  my  chief  chum  was  the  son  of  a  cabman.  He 
was  a  fine  fellow,  too.  I  chose  him  for  his  patches; 
but  I  adored  him  for  his  Irish  wit.  He  was  chums 
with  the  girl,  too.  She  used  to  share  his  peaches  and 
gobble  up  the  pinkest  side;  but  not  all  the  coaxing  hi 
the  world  would  entice  her  into  inviting  him  to  her 
parties." 

Rob  unfastened  his  collar  with  hands  whose  lei- 
surely motions  showed  his  thoughtfulness. 

"Day  isn't  like  most  girls,"  he  said  then. 

"Obviously  not."     Jack's  tone  was  suddenly  dry. 

With  unerring  aim,  Rob  sent  his  collar  flying 
through  the  air  to  land  on  the  table  across  the  room. 
The  gesture  was  wholly  impatient. 

"Now  look  here,  old  man,"  he  blurted  out;  "I 
didn't  ask  you  here  to  get  you  snubbed.  You  know 
that;  don't  you?" 

"Knowing  you,  I  also  know  that." 

"But  those  girls  were  beastly  rude." 

"I  also  know  that." 

"What  made  'em?"  Rob  queried,  as  much  of  him- 
self as  of  Jack. 

The  shoe  in  Jack's  hand  traced  a  short,  straight 
line.  Then,  — 

"Impassable,"  he  said  briefly. 

"Then,  by  thunder,  I'll  sit  it  out  to  the  end  on 
your  side!"  Rob  said  irately. 

"What's  the  use?" 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


"To  teach  them  that  I  am  a  sane  being,  and  choose 
my  friends  with  care.  Now  you  see  here,  Jack. 
Listen!  Those  girls  are  well  enough.  They're  nice 
girls  and  pretty  girls,  quite  the  nicest  ones  of  our  set. 
But  it  is  a  set  we  inherited.  Their  mothers  come  to 
our  mother's  receptions;  they  come  to  Day's  parties. 
For  all  I  know  to  the  contrary,  we  all  may  have  been 
christened  hi  a  bunch.  I've  been  brought  up  with 
them,  and  I  know  how  they  feel  about  things.  So 
does  Day.  All  the  more  reason  they  might  be  sure 
we'd  not  ask  them  here  to  our  house  to  meet  some- 
body they'd  have  to  cut  later." 

Jack  smiled  a  little  grimly. 

"They  have  saved  themselves  that  trouble  by 
cutting  me  now."  Then  he  relented.  "I  don't 
mind,  Rob;  I  have  no  especial  fault  to  find.  I'm  a 
good  deal  older  than  they  are,  anyway." 

"Six  years,"  Rob  reminded  him. 

"  Yes;  but,  at  our  ages,  that  is  a  good  deal.  Besides, 
I  have  my  work  to  look  out  for." 

Rob  made  another  interpolation. 

"Yes;   but  you  can't  work  all  the  time." 

"No.  Still,  it  is  the  main  thing  now.  I've  got 
to  justify  your  belief  that  I  am  worth  your  father's 
while.  That  will  take  most  of  my  time  for  the  next 
few  years.  Don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  added  has- 
tily. "I  know  what  a  thing  it  is  for  me:  the  way  you 
all  stand  by  me,  the  way  your  mother  asks  me  here  and 
makes  me  feel  at  home.  New  York  wouldn't  be  much 
of  a  place  to  me,  if  you  hadn't  stood  my  friends." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  69 

"Yes;   but  our  friends  have  got  to  do  it,  too." 

"Cut  it  out,  Rob,"  Jack  advised  him  frankly. 
"They  won't  do  it;  you'll  only  waste  your  effort." 

"Effort  be  hanged!"  Rob  said  shortly. 

"And  maybe  lose  your  friends." 

"  Friends  be  hanged,  too,  then ! "  Rob  added.  "  Only, 
in  that  case,  they  wouldn't  be  worth  the  rope." 

Jack  cast  aside  his  shoe  and  rose. 

"What's  the  use,  Rob?  Best  leave  things  as  they 
are.  I  ought  to  be  content.  Not  many  fellows 
have  one  friend  like  you,  let  alone  a  dozen  minor 
ones.  And,  to-night,  I  didn't  mind,  as  far  as  I  was 
concerned.  I  did  feel  sorry  for  Miss  Stayre,  though. 
She  was  worse  off  than  I." 

"And  the  worst  of  it  all  was,"  Rob  interrupted 
vengefully;  "the  little  sneaks  didn't  do  a  thing 
you  could  put  your  finger  on.  Girls,  too,  so  you 
couldn't  knock  them  down  and  lick  them.  Jack, 
as  I  have  observed  before,  there  aren't  many  girls 
like  Day." 

From  Jack's  words,  as  well  as  from  Rob's  perturbed 
face,  it  was  plainly  manifest  that  Day's  week-end 
party  was  far  from  proving  the  success  of  which  the 
girl  had  dreamed.  From  her  father,  Day  Argyle 
inherited  a  democratic  spirit  which,  with  her  growth 
towards  womanhood,  was  teaching  her  to  choose  her 
friends  rather  for  what  they  were  than  for  what  they 
owned.  From  him,  too,  came  an  intrepid  daring 
which  made  her  wholly  independent  of  certain  thread- 
bare rules  of  expediency.  This  last  phase  of  her 


70  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

nature  had  been  helped  on  by  her  social  position, 
for  the  Argyles  were  so  situated  as  to  make  laws, 
rather  than  to  obey  them.  Mrs.  Argyle,  cast  in  a 
gentler  mould  than  was  her  husband,  had  been  content 
to  allow  her  only  daughter  to  slide  on  from  year  to 
year  among  the  friends  whom  she  herself  had  chosen 
to  bid  to  the  first  baby  festivities  which  had  marked 
her  children's  social  career.  But  when,  in  the  course 
of  time,  Day  revolted  from  the  monotony  of  that 
small  circle,  Mrs.  Argyle  had  protested  a  little, 
cautioned  a  little,  then  yielded  with  the  best  possible 
grace  to  what  her  husband  assured  her  was  a  natu- 
ral result  of  Day's  growth.  Long  since,  Mrs.  Argyle 
had  accepted  Jack  Blanchard  as  a  welcome  guest, 
for  Rob's  sake,  for  her  husband's,  then  for  his  own. 
Later,  she  was  destined  to  do  the  same  by  Sidney 
Stayre.  She  had  smiled  a  little  at  Day's  birthday 
plan,  and  she  had  met  Sidney  with  outward  cordiality, 
but  with  inward  question.  The  question  had  an- 
swered itself  almost  at  once,  and  Sidney's  most 
cordial  invitation  to  return  to  Heatherleigh  had  come 
from  Mrs.  Argyle  herself. 

As  for  Day,  her  first  attraction  towards  Sidney  had 
ripened  into  a  genuine  regard;  two  hours  after  they 
first  met,  the  two  girls  had  parted  friends.  To  Day's 
straightforward  mind,  the  next  and  natural  thing  to 
do  with  her  new  friend  was  to  introduce  her  to  other 
friends  of  longer  standing.  Else,  how  increase  her 
circle?  Besides,  having  with  Rob's  help  discovered 
Sidney,  it  was  only  fair  to  share  the  trove  with  others. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  71 

Accordingly,  Day  had  confided  to  her  mother  all  the 
plan  for  the  week-end  party.  She  would  ask  Sidney 
and  her  cousin,  the  cousin  Rob  had  liked  so  well; 
and  Jack,  of  course.  Rob  always  insisted  upon  hav- 
ing Jack.  And  then,  to  meet  them,  she  would  ask 
Amy  and  Esther,  quite  the  nicest  girls  of  her  own 
set.  And  so,  by  the  time  they  all  were  back  in 
town,  Sidney  would  be  nicely  launched.  Launched,  a 
girl  like  Sidney  Stayre  could  never  sink. 

Her  mother  had  smiled  and  assented.  She  saw 
no  need  to  hand  on  to  her  young  daughter  the  social 
lesson  that  she  herself  had  learned,  the  lesson  that 
two  and  two  sometimes  make  five,  sometimes  make 
only  one  and  a  half.  In  any  case,  no  harm  would  be 
done.  There  was  always  the  chance  that  Sidney 
might  be  able  to  hold  her  own.  Her  manners  were 
like  those  of  Day;  her  pride  of  carriage  even  greater. 
The  mere  details  of  her  New  York  address  and  of 
her  simpler  gowns  might  easily  drop  out  of  sight. 

Day,  on  her  side,  had  looked  forward  to  the  event 
eagerly;  she  had  met  it  bravely.  It  had  required 
all  the  more  bravery  because,  as  Rob  had  said,  there 
had  been  nothing  upon  which  she  could  put  her 
finger.  Furthermore,  it  had  held  its  own  drop  cf 
humour.  Neither  one  of  the  two  girls  had  grasped 
the  fact  that  the  dark,  thin  man  with  the  irreproach- 
able tailor  and  the  sunny  smile  was  any  kin  of 
the  girl  in  the  home-made  muslin  frock.  They 
had  thrown  delicate  emphasis  upon  Sidney's  social 
remoteness  by  receiving  Wade  Winthrop  as  of  their 


72  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

own  world.  Too  late  in  the  evening  for  it  to  do  them 
any  good,  they  had  discovered  their  mistake. 

The  little  party  broke  up  early.  Day  lingered  in 
Sidney's  room  long  enough  to  unfasten  sundry  hooks 
of  Sidney's  simple  muslin  frock  which,  to  Rob's 
masculine  and  uncritical  eye,  had  held  its  own  vic- 
toriously beside  the  French  convent  embroideries 
of  the  other  girls.  Then,  dropping  a  hasty  kiss  on 
Sidney's  round,  bare  neck,  she  turned  away. 

"I'll  be  back  in  just  a  few  minutes,"  she  added, 
as  she  reached  the  door;  "but  don't  sit  up  for 
me." 

Sidney  glanced  up  in  surprise.  An  instant  earlier 
and  to  her  mother,  Day  had  confessed  to  an  over- 
whelming sleepiness. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

Day  hesitated.     Then  she  made  grim  response,  — 

"Merely  to  have  it  out  with  them,  before  I  go  to 
sleep." 

Sidney  took  a  swift  step  forward  and  caught  her 
hostess  in  her  arms. 

"Day,  you  sha'n't!" 

But  Day  freed  herself,  and  spoke  with  all  the  in- 
herited dignity  of  the  entire  Argyle  clan. 

"I  am  going,  Sidney.  It  is  only  fair  and  right 
to  tell  them  what  I  think." 

"You  mustn't!    You  can't;   they're  your  guests." 

"Of  course.     But  so  are  you." 

The  next  instant,  her  footsteps  were  heard,  passing 
down  the  hall  outside. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  73 

Two  fluffy  heads  and  two  pale  pink  dressing-gowns 
greeted  her  upon  the  other  threshold. 

"Day!  You  old  darling!  How  nice  of  you  to 
come!  We  were  dying  for  a  talk  with  you."  So 
much  was  in  duet.  Then  Amy,  the  daintier  one  and 
the  fluffier,  added,  "This  is  the  first  minute  yet 
we've  had  any  good  of  you,  to-night." 

"I  don't  see  why."  But,  for  the  life  of  her,  Day 
was  unable  to  maintain  her  frigid  tone  to  the  end  of 
the  phrase. 

As  Sidney  had  reminded  her,  they  were  her  guests 
and,  as  such,  entitled  to  her  courtesy.  And  then 
they  were  fond  of  her,  and  fellow-sharers  as  well  of 
a  whole  girlhood  of  memories  in  which  Sidney,  of 
necessity,  could  have  no  part.  She  relented  a  little 
and  relaxed  something  of  her  grimness,  as  she  allowed 
herself  to  be  dragged  across  the  room  and  pulled 
down  upon  the  bed  without  which,  as  a  background, 
no  girlish  gossip  is  ever  half  complete. 

"Now  tell  us  all  about  everything,"  they  demanded, 
when  the  three  of  them  were  settled  in  an  indiscrimi- 
nate heap,  with  Day  on  top,  out  of  regard  for  the 
frock  which  she  had  neglected  to  remove.  "You've 
been  gone,  all  winter,  Day,  and  we've  been  gone,  all 
summer  long.  It  is  ages  since  we've  seen  you,  and 
you  must  have  lots  to  tell.  What  have  you  been 
doing?  Weren't  you  terribly  lonely,  up  there  in 
Canada?" 

Day  laughed,  as  she  shook  her  head. 

"Rob  was  up  there  with  us,  you  know." 


74  DAY:  PIER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Esther  was  less  tactful  than  direct. 

"How  funny  you  are,  Day!  I've  been  watching 
you,  all  the  evening.  You  never  used  to  have  so 
much  to  do  with  Rob;  but  now  you  act  as  if  you 
couldn't  keep  your  eyes  off  from  him,  one  single 
minute." 

Day  vouchsafed  no  explanation. 

"Well,  I  can't,"  she  assented  tranquilly. 

Amy  made  a  little  grimace  of  disgust. 

"And,  what's  worse,  he  seems  about  as  bad.  He 
had  the  corner  of  his  eye  on  Day,  all  the  time  he 
talked  to  me,  to-night  at  dinner.  It's  not  fair,  Day, 
for  a  girl  to  have  such  a  brother,  and  then  monopo- 
lize him  entirely.  Isn't  it  a  shame  he  never  has  left 
off  his  limp?  Don't  you  believe  he  ever  will  get 
over  it?" 

"Do  you  know/'  Esther's  tone  was  full  of  conscious 
sentiment;  "  I  think  it  only  makes  him  so  much  more 
interesting." 

"So  much  more  uncomfortable,  you  mean,"  Day 
said  a  little  sharply.  For  some  reason  which  she  her- 
self was  unable  to  analyze,  she  felt  suddenly  loath 
to  discuss  Rob's  weakness  with  either  one  of  these 
chattering  damsels. 

"Oh,  does  it  hurt  him?"  Amy  asked,  with  wonder- 
ing regret.  "I  didn't  suppose  it  would  by  now." 

"What  do  you  suppose  he  does  limp  for,  then?" 
Day  queried.  "Because  he  thinks  it  is  becoming?" 

"No.  But  he  always  looks  so  jolly  and  so  —  so 
splendid,"  Esther  said,  as  she  slowly  untied  the  ribbon 


" Day  rose  and  faced  them  hotly."     Page  75. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  75 

from  her  hair.  "I  can't  imagine  his  being  uncom- 
fortable for  one  single  minute." 

Day's  thoughts  dashed  swiftly  backwards. 

"Well,  he  was,"  she  answered  curtly;  "was,  and 
is."  Then  she  grasped  the  lesser  bull  by  the  horns. 
"What  do  you  think  of  Jack  Blanchard?" 

With  a  sudden  smile,  Amy  threw  one  arm  across 
Day's  shoulders. 

"That  you  have  been  a  perfect  darling  to  take 
him  up." 

Day  frowned  in  swift  annoyance. 

"I  asked  you  what  you  thought  of  him,  not  what 
you  think  of  me." 

"But  it's  all  of  a  piece,"  Amy  persisted.  "I  only 
hope  he  appreciates  it." 

Day  sat  up  and  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  knee. 

"Appreciates  what?"  she  demanded. 

"The  way  you  have  taken  him  up  and  treated  him 
like  an  equal." 

"Why  shouldn't  we?"  Day  demanded  again. 

And  Amy,  heedless  of  the  animosity  in  Day's  tone, 
made  rash  answer,  - 

"Because  he  isn't." 

This  time,  Day  rose  and  faced  them  hotly,  forget- 
ful of  the  self-repression  imposed  upon  her  as  their 
hostess. 

"I  should  like  to  know  why  not,  Amy  Browne. 
He  is  as  good  as  we  are,  and  his  father  was  as  good 
as  ours,  even  if  he  didn't  have  quite  so  much  money. 
There  wasn't  a  single  boy  in  our  dancing  school,  two 


76  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

years  ago,  who  had  better  manners;  there  wasn't  one 
who  was  as  kind  and  helpful  to  all  sorts  of  people. 
You  used  to  toady  to  Willie  Van  Gilt,  because  his 
father  was  building  a  better  house  than  yours  and 
just  across  the  street.  He  was  a  dunce  and  a  sneak, 
and  made  fun  of  poor  little  Monsieur  Alcaire  to  his 
very  face.  He  isn't  worth  Jack  Blanchard's  little 
finger  nail,  not  even  a  cutting  from  it,  and  here  you've 
sat  and  snubbed  Jack  Blanchard,  all  this  whole  even- 
ing." 

"How  have  we  snubbed  him?"  came  in  a  two- 
voiced  and  indignant  protest  from  the  bed. 

Day  mounted  her  stilts. 

"How  haven't  you,  you'd  better  ask.  We  girls 
all  know  how  to  do  such  things  in  more  ways  than 
one.  I  know  how,  myself,  Amy  Browne;  and  they 
always  did  say  'Set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief.'"  Day 
laughed  a  little  nervously.  Then  she  held  out  a  hand 
to  each  of  her  guests.  "Now  see  here,  girls,  I've 
scolded  like  a  shrew.  I'm  sorry;  but  you  deserved 
it.  You  know  you  weren't  quite  fair  to  Jack,  to- 
night." 

And  Amy  was  the  first  to  own  up  to  her  penitence. 

"We  were  horrid,  Day.  Truly,  we  didn't  think. 
We're  sorry  now." 

Day  yielded  to  the  hands  held  out  in  apology,  and 
once  more  sat  down  upon  the  bed.  Nevertheless, 
she  aimed  one  final  shot. 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  be  more  sorry,  to-morrow,  if 
you  care  anything  about  Rob.  He  just  adores  Jack 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  77 

Blanchard,  and,  when  he  went  off  to  bed,  he  was 
madder  than  I  ever  saw  him  before  in  all  my  life." 

Amy  still  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  further 
border  of  the  rug. 

"Truly,  I  am  sorry,  Day,  sorry  and  ashamed,"  she 
confessed  at  last.  "I  suppose  I  am  a  horrid  little 
snob;  but  all  I  knew  about  Mr.  Blanchard  was  that 
he  had  been  a  brakeman  — 

"Pullman  conductor,"  Day  corrected  her  firmly. 

"Well,  something  or  other  on  a  train;  and  it  never 
had  occurred  to  me  that  I  would  find  him  here  to 
meet  us." 

"What  if  it  hadn't?"  Day  queried,  with  exasperatr 
ing  calm,  and  Amy  took  refuge  in  silence. 

"I  suppose,"  Esther  broke  in  upon  the  pause 
which  was  fast  becoming  embarrassing;  "I  suppose 
you'll  say  we  weren't  too  nice  to  Sidney,  either." 

"You  weren't,"  Day  answered  flatly. 

For  a  moment,  Esther  faltered,  somewhat  at  a  loss 
what  response  she  best  would  make.  This  calm, 
intrepid  hostess  was  not  the  Day  she  had  known  of 
yore.  It  was  not  customary  for  a  guest  to  be  so 
soundly  rated  for  her  sins.  Nevertheless,  hi  the  back 
of  her  girlish  brain,  Esther  was  conscious  that  she 
deserved  the  rating. 

"I  —  I  hope  she  didn't  mind  it,"  she  faltered. 

Day  lifted  her  chin. 

"Sidney  is  human,"  she  said.  "Still,  I  suppose 
she  considered  the  source."  Then,  of  a  sudden,  she 
dropped  her  censorious  tone,  and  her  voice  took  on 


78  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

the  well-known  ring  of  the  old  Day.  "I've  been 
horrid  to  scold  you,  when  you  were  my  company," 
she  said  contritely.  "I  hadn't  any  business  to  do  it; 
but  I  was  so  hurt  and  sorry.  You  see,  these  are  my 
new  friends.  I  had  told  them  about  you  and  wanted 
them  to  know  you.  Then,  when  I  asked  you  out  to 
get  acquainted,  it  all  went  wrong.  I  suppose  it  was 
partly  my  fault.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  that  Sid- 
ney couldn't  wear  French  gowns,  and  that  Jack  went 
to  war  instead  of  to  Monsieur  Alcaire's  dancing  class. 
Then  you  would  have  known.  But,  you  see,  Rob 
and  I  have  been  getting  used  to  it  by  degrees.  While 
we  were  gone,  last  winter,  we  knew  some  people  nicer 
than  we  were,  people  who  had  to  eat  tub  butter  and 
cold  roast  mutton.  That  taught  us  a  good  many 
things.  A  year  ago," she  added  honestly;  "I  suppose 
I  was  as  bad  as  you;  but  now  those  things  don't  seem 
to  count." 

"Who  is  Sidney  Stayre,  anyway?"  Amy  queried 
meekly. 

Day's  glance  included  their  group. 

"One  of  the  four  nicest  girls  in  the  world,"  she  said 
succinctly.  "What  is  more,  with  your  help,  I  intend 
she  shall  keep  on  being  one  of  them." 

And  Amy  held  out  her  hand  to  Day,  hi  token  that 
she  understood  and  pledged  herself  to  help. 

It  was  fully  an  hour  later,  the  next  night,  when  the 
seven  young  people  went  trooping  out  of  the  living- 
room  in  a  merry  group.  Rob,  however,  lingered  in 
the  hall,  with  Jack  beside  him,  while  the  others  took 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  79 

up   the  bedroom  candles  with  which  it  was  Mrs. 

Argyle's  whim  to  supplement  the  electric  light  that, 

at  other  times,  flooded  the  house.     The  girls  went 

their  chattering  way.     Then  Rob  turned  to  his  friend, 

with  a  laugh  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"Had  a  good  time,  to-day,  Jackie  boy?" 

Jack  Blanchard's  eyes  were  thoughtful,  however, 

as  he  stood  looking  out  the  window  across  the  dark 

stretch  of  lawn. 
"I'd  like  to  know  what  struck  those  girls,"  he 

meditated  aloud. 

Rob  chuckled.     Then  he  answered  tersely,  — 

"  Day  did."     And,  seizing  his  friend  by  the  arm,  he 

led  the  way  out  to  the  wide  veranda  which  echoed  for 

another  hour  with  the  two  footfalls,  one  so  steady  and 

rhythmic,  the  other  halting. 

"Do  you  know,  Dad,"  Rob  said  to  his  father,  the 

next  morning;  "I  believe  I'd  rather  give  up  Exeter 

than  Jack." 


80  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

"T  HOPE  I   am  superior  to  my  clothes,"  Phyllis 

-*-  said  severely. 

Rob  cast  upon  her  a  comprehensive  glance  which 
included  her  tugged-back  hair  and  her  knotted  shoe- 
strings. 

"I  certainly  hope  you  are,  Phil,"  he  responded 
fervently. 

With  a  bounce,  Phyllis  mounted  upon  the  defensive. 

"Well,  I  can't  afford  to  go  around,  all  dressed  up, 
every  single  day." 

For  his  only  answer,  Rob  cast  a  second  comprehen- 
sive glance  at  the  retreating  back  of  Sidney.  Phyllis 
intercepted  his  glance  and  interpreted  it  with  pug- 
nacious promptness. 

"She's  welcome,  if  she  wants  to.  She  hasn't  any- 
thing else  to  do." 

Rob  laughed  outright.  No  one  but  Phyllis  Stayre 
could  have  found  it  in  her  heart  to  resist  the  exceed- 
ing jollity  of  that  laugh. 

"Come  off  there,  Phil,"  he  warned  her.  "You 
know  I  never  let  anybody  slang  Sidney,  when  I'm 
about.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  she  does  no 
end  of  things,  busy  all  the  time,  compared  to  you  and 
me." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  81 

"I  should  think  you  might  leave  me  out,"  Phyllis 
grumbled. 

Rob  rolled  his  blue  eyes  at  her  languishingly. 

"Oh,  but  I  should  be  so  lonesome."  Then  his  tone 
changed,  and  grew  brisk  once  more.  "Come  now, 
Phil,  do  be  sensible.  What  in  the  world  is  the  use  of 
making  yourself  look  such  a  guy?"  he  admonished 
her,  with  exceeding  frankness. 

"Who  cares  how  I  look?"  she  demanded  pessimis- 
tically. 

Rob's  answering  shaft  came  too  unexpectedly  to 
give  her  time  to  dodge. 

"Don't  you?" 

"I  — I  don't  know." 

"Of  course  you  do.  Any  girl  does,  any  girl  that's 
half  a  girl." 

But,  by  this  time,  Phyllis  had  once  more  rallied. 

"Any  girl  that's  half  a  girl  should  remember  that 
her  body  is  more  than  raiment,"  she  said,  with  sanc- 
timonious fervour. 

Rob  nodded  in  swift  approval. 

"  You  bet  she  should!  Granted  a  respectable  body, 
she  should  at  once  proceed  to  tog  it  out  in  respectable 
raiment.  You  aren't  a  beauty,  Phil;  but  that's  no 
reason  you  should  straightway  transform  yourself 
into  a  fright." 

Phyllis  glowered  at  him  and  opened  her  mouth  to 
speak.  Then,  with  unwonted  meekness,  she  shut  her 
mouth  and  held  her  peace. 

"Of  course,  this  isn't  a  question  a  fellow  is  sup- 


82  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

posed  to  mix  up  in,"  Rob  continued  placidly.  "I 
know  it's  none  of  my  business,  Phil.  Still,  when  you 
row  Sidney  as  you  did,  just  now,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I 
won't  make  it  my  business." 

Phyllis  sniffed. 

"Sidney  doesn't  care." 

"No,"  Rob  admitted  frankly;  "Sidney  doesn't. 
To  my  mind,  that's  the  worst  of  it." 

Phyllis  looked  startled.  Rob  Argyle  and  his  opin- 
ions counted  to  her  for  more  than  she  cared  to  confess. 

"I  don't  see  why,"  she  said. 

"Because,"  Rob  told  her  coolly;  "you  have  banged 
away  at  her  till  you  have  made  her  callous.  It's  my 
impression,  young  woman,  if  the  truth  were  told, 
you'd  find  out  that  Sidney  Stayre  has  pretty  much 
washed  her  hands  of  you." 

Phyllis  suddenly  lost  her  poise  and  burst  into  open 
lamentation. 

"Everybody  has,"  she  proclaimed. 

"Apparently  I  haven't,"  Rob  suggested  jovially. 

"No.  But  you  are  the  only  one.  Nobody  else 
cares  what  I  do." 

Rob's  answer  was  unexpected. 

"Day  does." 

"Hh!" 

For  an  instant,  Rob  eyed  her  wrathfully.  Then 
he  laughed  again. 

"I  wish  you'd  interpret  that  remark,  Phil." 

"I  shouldn't  think  it  needed  any  interpretation,  "she 
said  morosely.  "  Any  dunce  knows  what  it  means,  and 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  £3 

any  dunce  knows  that  Day  Argyle  doesn't  care  two 
pins  whether  I  go  about  in  bloomers  or  a  ball  dress." 

Rob  wagged  his  yellow  head  to  and  fro  against  the 
back  of  the  shabby  Morris  chair  which  he  seemed  to 
regard  as  his  own  particular  place,  whenever  he  was 
inside  the  Stayre  home. 

"Want  proof,  Phil?"  he  queried  negligently. 

"Don't  care." 

"All  right."  And,  clasping  his  hands  behind  his 
head,  he  fell  to  whistling  softly  to  himself. 

Phyllis,  leaning  on  the  opposite  chair,  fidgeted 
with  a  loosened  knob,  ran  her  fingers  up  and  down 
the  rods,  fidgeted  with  the  knob  once  more  until  it 
fell  with  a  crash  to  the  floor. 

"Drop  something,  Phil?"  Rob  inquired,  without 
stirring. 

"What  about  Day?"  she  asked,  as  she  stooped  to 
look  for  the  missing  knob. 

"You'll  find  it  over  by  the  bookcase  in  the  corner. 
I  heard  it  roll  that  way.  Day?  Oh,  nothing;  only 
she  told  me,  if  Sidney  could  coax  you  into  decent 
clothes,  to  bring  you  along  with  us,"  Rob  said  care- 
lessly, and  neglecting  to  add  that  the  first  suggestion 
of  the  plan  had  come  from  his  own  fertile  brain. 

Phyllis's  face  was  invisible  behind  the  back  of  the 
opposite  chair,  and  Rob  missed  the  sudden  lighting 
of  her  eyes.  By  the  time  she  stood  erect  once  more, 
she  had  regained  her  former  indifference. 

"Where?"  she  asked,  while  she  fitted  the  knob  to 
position. 


84  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Just  to  luncheon  and  then  the  matinee." 

The  knob  refused  to  fit.  Instead,  once  again  it  fell 
with  a  crash  to  the  floor.  This  time,  Phyllis  let  it  lie. 

"I  never  go  to  such  places,"  she  said  shortly. 

"Time  you  did,  then.  Come  along,  Phil.  It's 
not  too  late  yet.  No  matter  what  you  said  to  Sid- 
ney," Rob  coaxed  her.  "Sidney  doesn't  care;  she 
knew  you  were  just  talking  to  hear  your  voice,  and 
didn't  mean  a  word  you  said.  Go  on  and  put  your- 
self into  your  best  clothes;  it  never  takes  you  any 
time  at  all  to  get  ready,"  he  added  artfully,  for  he 
had  learned  of  old  that  Phyllis  most  of  all  prided 
herself  upon  her  swiftness. 

His  artfulness  bore  unexpected  fruit. 

"You're  sure  you  want  me?"  she  asked. 

"Sure." 

"And  that  Sidney  —  " 

"Sidney  said  she  wished  we  might  get  you,"  Rob 
quoted  with  a  literal  truth  which,  however,  failed 
to  reproduce  the  accent  that  gave  the  phrase  its 
meaning. 

"Did  she  really  say  that?" 

"Certain  sure.  Now  go  and  get  on  your  prettiest 
duds." 

Once  more  Phyllis  hesitated. 

"But  I  haven't  any  pretty  ones." 

And  Rob  made  rash,  but  reassuring,  answer,  — 

"Then  help  yourself  to  some  of  Sidney's." 

Wade  Winthrop  was  more  than  commonly  tired, 
that  afternoon,  when  he  left  the  office  and,  a  half- 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  85 

hour  later,  let  himself  in  at  the  Stayre  front  door. 
For  the  most  part,  he  enjoyed  his  work  absolutely; 
but  now  and  then  it  came  upon  his  nerves.  His 
maiden  year  upon  the  great  evening  daily  had  won 
for  him  a  reputation  as  master  of  humour  and  past 
master  of  pathos.  As  result,  he  found  himself  sent 
hither  and  thither  throughout  the  city  to  work  up 
stories  that  would  have  been  too  elusive  for  less 
pointed  pens.  Never  very  robust,  Wade  was  also 
far  from  being  callous;  again  and  again  he  wearied 
of  this  constant  drain  upon  his  sympathies.  Again 
and  again  he  sickened  of  this  constant  holding  up 
to  public  view  the  narrow  tragedies  which  yet  were 
wide  enough  to  cast  a  shadow  over  the  narrow  lives 
on  which  they  lay.  To  what  good?  But  now  and 
then,  when  chance  brought  him  back  over  the  same 
trail,  he  found  that  some  word  of  his,  written  at  head- 
long speed  with  the  boy  at  his  elbow  demanding 
instant  copy,  that  some  stray  word  of  his  had  guided 
a  helping  hand  towards  the  need  he  had  described. 
Then  and  then  only,  Wade  Winthrop  took  heart  of 
grace.  Perhaps,  after  all  was  said  and  done,  even  a 
reporter's  life  might  accomplish  some  good,  other 
than  providing  soothing  sauce  for  breakfast  or  for 
the  bedtime  cigar.  After  each  one  of  such  occa- 
sions, he  threw  himself  into  his  work  more  zealously 
than  ever,  with  the  discouraging  result  that  other 
men,  younger  and  of  far  less  merit,  were  promoted 
to  routine  office  work,  while  he  still  scoured  the 
city  streets. 


86  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

To  be  sure,  office  work  was  forbidden  to  him. 
Months  before,  a  trio  of  lung  specialists  had  thumped 
and  pummelled  him,  then  offered  it  as  their  verdict 
that  his  lungs  were  never  meant  to  exist  within 
office  walls.  And  Wade,  loving  law  absolutely  and 
holding  in  his  young  grasp  a  corner  of  success,  had 
been  forced  to  bow  to  the  inevitable  with  what  grace 
he  could. 

That  day,  he  had  been  sent  up  to  the  borders  of 
Harlem  on  an  eviction  case.  By  the  time  he  had 
reached  the  spot,  the  law  had  shown  its  power,  and 
a  litter  of  furniture  already  strewed  the  street. 
Guarding  it  as  best  they  might  from  a  band  of  curious 
gamins  were  the  bent  old  grandfather  and  the  father 
whose  broken  arm  had  caused  the  whole  destruction 
to  their  home.  The  mother  was  away  at  work;  the 
little  baby  was  wailing  for  her  care,  wrhile  the  other 
children  were  running  wild,  half  terrified,  half  in- 
clined to  regard  as  a  glorified  picnic  this  huddle  of 
parlour  chairs  upon  the  pavement. 

Long  since,  Wade  had  pledged  himself  to  use  his 
salary  for  just  such  cases;  and  now  a  coming  storm 
made  haste  and  double  fees  imperative.  He  finished 
his  copy  on  the  elevated  tram;  then,  with  a  sigh  of 
absolute  exhaustion,  he  gave  it  to  the  waiting  boy 
and  started  off  towards  home. 

As  he  boarded  the  crowded  up-town  car,  he  met 
Jack  Blanchard,  and  Jack  was  beaming. 

"I'm  bound  for  the  Argyles',"  he  explained,  when 
they  both  were  swaying  to  the  beat  of  the  car-wheels. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  87 

"Rob  just  telephoned  to  me  to  come  up  for  dinner. 
He  said  your  cousin  was  there,  too." 

And  Wade's  weariness  was  redoubled,  as  he  went 
up  the  steps  at  home.  On  days  like  this,  he  found 
it  a  never-failing  relief  to  see  Sidney  watching  for 
him  in  the  hall,  waiting  to  hail  him  with  some  merry 
nonsense  while  he  hung  up  his  hat,  then  leading  the 
way  to  the  book-crammed  library  and  settling  her- 
self for  a  gossip  with  him  over  the  events  of  the  day. 
Wade  Winthrop  liked  his  uncle,  tolerated  the  chil- 
dren and  gave  to  his  aunt  a  dutiful  affection.  Never- 
theless, it  was  for  Sidney's  sake  that  he  had  chosen 
the  Stayre  home  to  the  more  luxurious  bachelor 
apartment  which  he  could  so  easily  have  afforded. 
And  now,  when  he  wanted  her  the  most,  Sidney  had 
deserted  him  and  gone  out  to  dine. 

His  key  clicked  sharply  in  the  latch,  and  the  door 
swung  open.  Then,  — 

"Hullo,"  observed  a  grudging  voice  from  half  way 
up  the  stairs. 

Wade  turned  to  look,  and  remained  looking. 

"  Phyllis !    That  you?    How  —  how  well  you  look !" 

A  more  carping  critic  would  have  objected  to  the 
implication  that  good  looks  were  not  of  her  normal 
condition.  Phyllis,  however,  was  too  unused  to 
favourable  comment  upon  her  appearance  to  be 
critical  of  the  phrase.  Instead,  she  laughed  with 
shamefaced  pleasure. 

"You  like  it?"  she  queried. 

"Like  it!"  Wade  echoed  heartily.    "I  should  say 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


I  did.  Come  down  and  show  yourself,  Phil.  Why 
this  sudden  transformation?" 

A  step  at  a  time  and  with  long  pauses  between  the 
steps,  Phyllis  descended  the  stairs. 

"I've  been  to  see  Peter  Pan,"  she  said. 

"Good  for  you!  I  didn't  know  you  cared  for  such 
things." 

"I  didn't,  only  to-day."  Phyllis  spoke  with  a  trace 
of  her  old  antagonism. 

Wade  disdained  it. 

"Glad  you've  made  a  start  into  frivolities,  young 
woman,"  he  said  gayly.  "It  will  do  you  good.  Will 
you  go  somewhere  with  me,  next  Saturday?" 

He  was  surprised  at  the  sudden  dilation  of  her  light 
blue  eyes,  at  the  sudden  catching  of  her  breath. 

"With  you?" 

"Of  course,  unless  you'd  rather  have  a  younger 
escort,"  he  said  kindly,  never  dreaming  of  the  way 
her  heart  was  drumming  the  blood  to  her  ears,  at  the 
rapturous  idea.  Then,  as  she  reached  the  bottom 
step,  he  caught  her  shoulders  in  his  hands  and  drew 
her  across  the  floor  to  the  nearest  window.  "Why, 
Phil,"  he  said;  "you're  really  almost  handsome." 

There  had  been  no  mockery  beneath  his  words; 
nevertheless,  the  girl's  face  twitched,  and  she  made  a 
swift  effort  to  free  herself  from  his  grasp.  For  a 
moment,  he  studied  her  inquiringly.  Then  his  hold 
upon  her  shoulders  grew  firmer. 

"What  is  it,  little  cousin?  "he  asked  kindly.  "I  know 
I've  hurt  you  somehow;  but  I  truly  don't  know  how." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  89 

Phyllis  shook  her  head  sharply;  but,  for  the  instant, 
she  dared  not  trust  her  voice  to  speak. 

"  But  I  don't  like  to  hurt  you,  Phil,"  he  urged  again. 

Phyllis  found  her  voice. 

"What  makes  you  poke  fun  at  me,  then,  the  whole 
blessed  time?"  she  demanded. 

"But  I  don't." 

"You  do,  too.  You  did  it  now.  You're  so  taken 
up  with  Sidney  that  you  don't  think  anybody  else 
has  any  feelings,  anyhow,"  Phyllis  protested,  in  irate 
woe. 

"What  have  I  done?"  Wade  asked,  in  blank  amaze- 
ment. 

Phyllis's  answer  came  defiantly. 

"You  said  I  was  almost  handsome." 

"Well,  aren't  you?" 

"No;  you  know  I  am  a  fright." 

Poor  Wade  thought  despairingly  of  his  looked-for 
hour  of  rest  before  dinner.  Never  was  well-meant 
compliment  received  in  more  disconcerting  fashion. 
In  spite  of  himself,  he  smiled  at  the  fervour  of  Phyllis's 
denial.  Then  he  straightened  his  lips  and  steadied 
his  voice.  He  was  in  for  it  now;  he  would  go  through 
with  it  and  take  the  consequences  as  they  came. 
He  had  never  felt  any  especial  drawing  towards 
Phyllis,  beyond  the  vague  sympathy  which  one  always 
bestows  upon  the  ugly  duckling.  Nevertheless,  — 

"You're  not  a  fright,  Phil,  not  by  any  means.  If 
you'd  only  make  the  most  of  yourself,  you  would  be 
a  good-looking  girl." 


90  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"I  do  make  the  most  of  myself,"  she  stated,  with 
crushing  finality.  "It's  not  my  fault  that  I  haven't 
much  to  start  on." 

Again  she  tried  to  draw  away;  again  she  was  forced 
to  yield  to  his  strong  hands,  as  he  bade  her,  — 

"Look  in  the  glass,  Phil.  You  don't  often  get  sucli 
a  start  as  you  have,  to-day." 

"To-day!"  Her  lip  curled.  "I  look  like  a  frowzy 
monkey,  Wade,  and  you  know  it." 

For  his  only  reply,  he  stood  smiling  down  into  her 
face  which,  surrounded  with  its  unwonted  wraves  of 
hair  and  set  off  by  a  narrow  line  of  scarlet  velvet 
above  the  collar  of  her  dark  blue  gown,  was  trans- 
formed into  something  not  unlike  the  beauty  with 
which  Wade  had  jokingly  charged  her.  To  be  sure, 
the  long  nose  was  thickly  sprinkled  with  freckles; 
the  eyes  were  washed-out  blue,  and  the  awkward 
stoop  of  the  shoulders  had  no  need  of  the  help  of 
the  spectacles  and  the  prominent  eyes  to  proclaim 
Phyllis  as  near-sighted.  And  yet,  taken  all  in  all, 
Phyllis  Stayre,  that  day,  was  not  an  unattractive  girl. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  she  demanded  at 
length,  grown  restive  beneath  his  steady  scrutiny. 

"You.  I  wish  you'd  do  it  oftener,  Phil.  You're 
good  to  look  at  now." 

"I  must  be.  Anyway,  I  didn't  do  it;  it  was  Day. 
Rob  took  me  there  to  lunch,  and  Day  said  I  was  too 
plain.  She  curled  my  hair  and  fussed  me  up,  before 
we  went  to  the  table.  I  didn't  mind  it,  just  for  the 
once,"  Phyllis  explained  with  lofty  tolerance. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  91 

"No;  I  should  say  not.  I  hope  she  showed  you 
how  she  went  about  it,"  Wade  observed,  as,  still 
holding  Phyllis  by  the  shoulder,  he  crossed  to  the  old 
sofa  that  filled  one  corner  of  the  hall. 

"Me!  I  can't  fuss  to  do  this  sort  of  thing,"  Phyllis 
protested. 

"Why  not?" 

"What's  the  use?" 

Wade  was  very  tired.  Unknown  to  himself,  his 
very  tiredness  gave  a  little  caressing  intonation  to  his 
voice,  as  he  answered,  — 

"Because  I  like  to  see  it,  Phil." 

Again  she  looked  up  into  his  face  with  the  same 
dumb  gratitude  of  the  beaten  dog  who  finds  a  friend. 

"Does  it  really  make  any  difference  to  you  how  I 
look,  Wade?"  she  asked  unsteadily. 

Touched  in  spite  of  himself  by  the  absolute  meek- 
ness of  her  tone,  he  dropped  down  on  the  sofa  and 
drew  her  down  beside  him,  gently,  though  with  a 
secret  expectation  that  she  would  rebuff  him,  the 
next  moment.  Instead,  he  was  surprised  to  feel  her 
nestle  to  his  touch. 

"Why,  Phyllis  child!"  he  said.    "What  is  it?" 

"Nothing,"  she  replied  curtly.  "I  only  supposed 
that  nobody  ever  cared.  I  —  I'm  glad  that  you  do; 
that's  all." 

"But,  Phyllis,  we  all  care,"  he  urged  her. 

"No,"  she  made  dispassionate  answer.  "They 
don't.  You  may  care,  you  say  you  do.  But  most 
of  them  say,  'It's  just  Phyllis';  only  my  father.  He 


92  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

likes  me;  but  he  never  knows  how  I  look.  The  others 
don't  mind  much  about  me,  one  way  or  the  other." 

Wade  hesitated.     Then,  — 

"Is  it  all  their  fault,  Phil?"  he  asked  her. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  honestly.  "Sometimes  I 
think  it  is.  Sometimes  I'm  not  so  sure.  I  suppose 
I  am  queer,  and  the  odd  one.  I  don't  seem  to  belong 
anywhere,  or  to  anybody.  The  others  generally  let 
me  alone.  I'm  thankful  for  so  much,  though.  If 
they  fussed  at  me,  I  should  go  wild." 

Her  hands  clasped  each  other  tragically,  as  she 
spoke,  and  her  face  twitched  with  the  emotion  she 
was  doing  her  best  to  keep  out  of  her  voice.  Then 
Wade,  sitting  beside  her,  seemed  of  a  sudden  to  grow 
abnormally  large  before  he  vanished  in  a  fog.  The 
next  moment,  Phyllis  was  filled  with  mortification, 
as  one  large  tear  and  then  another  slid  down  to  the 
end  of  her  long  nose  and  tumbled  off  into  her  lap. 

"I'm  all  sorts  of  a  baby,"  she  said  brokenly,  as  she 
started  to  rise. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Phil?" 

"lip-Stan's.    I  forgot  something." 

For  his  only  answer,  Wade  pulled  her  down  again 
at  his  side  on  the  sofa. 

"Phil,"  he  said  then;  "I  begin  to  think  I've  never 
been  quite  fair  to  you.  I  thought  you  didn't  care  to 
have  us  like  you,  that  you  preferred  to  go  your  own 
way,  to  make  yourself  a  little  —  odd." 

One  great  sob  shook  her  shoulders.  Then  she  faced 
him  and  spoke  with  sudden  fury. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  93 

"Wade,  I've  hated  it." 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  then;  "sorry  I  didn't  know  it 
sooner." 

"What  difference?"  she  asked  him  shortly. 

"This:  that  we  might  have  been  friends,  ever  so 
long  ago." 

"You  had  Sidney,"  she  reminded  him,  with  some 
asperity. 

"Can't  a  fellow  have  two  friends?"  he  asked, 
laughing. 

"He  doesn't  want  them." 

"He  does,  when  they're  as  unlike  as  you  and  Sid- 
ney." Then,  at  her  frown,  he  changed  his  phrase. 
"You  and  Sidney  were  meant  to  set  each  other  off, 
Phil.  Your  place  is  side  by  side.  Instead  of  that, 
you  go  your  ways."  For  a  minute,  he  fell  silent, 
drawing  swift  mental  contrast  between  the  two  sisters, 
the  one  so  sunny,  the  other  shadowed  by  clouds  of 
her  own  making.  Then,  just  as  he  might  have  done 
to  Bungay,  he  threw  one  strong  arm  around  Phyllis's 
shoulders  and  cuddled  her  against  his  side.  "Little 
cousin,"  he  said  gently;  "it's  my  own  notion  that 
you're  lonesome." 

"Well,  what  if  I  am?"  she  said,  a  bit  ungraciously. 

"What's  the  use,  when  you  have  me  to  play  with?" 

"I  never  noticed  that  you  cared  to  play  with  me," 
she  said  contradictiously.  "People  don't.  They  try 
it,  just  as  Rob  Argyle  did,  to-day;  but  they  end  by 
keeping  Sidney  to  dinner  and  sending  me  home  in  the 
carriage.  It's  no  use,  Wade;  I  don't  fit  in  anywhere. 


94  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

I'm  queer  and  cross,  and  you'd  better  let  me  alone, 
if  you  know  what's  good  for  yourself."  And,  with  a 
sudden  wrench,  she  pulled  herself  out  of  his  encircling 
arm  and  rushed  off  up  the  stairs. 

For  a  long  interval,  Wade  sat  there,  staring  after 
her  retreating  form.  At  last  he  spoke. 

"Poor  little  termagant!"  he  said.  And  then  again, 
"Poor  Phil!" 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  95 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

TT  was  early  November  by  now;  Heatherleigh  was 
-*-  deserted,  and  the  shades  of  the  Madison  Avenue 
house  hung  wide  open  to  the  sun.  The  up-town 
streets,  so  long  deserted  save  for  the  lumbering  motor- 
cars whose  claim  it  was  to  see  all  New  York  in  a  given 
number  of  minutes,  were  now  beginning  to  take  on  a 
look  of  life.  The  summer  exodus  was  ending,  and 
late  October  had  brought  back  to  town  even  a  sprink- 
ling of  the  ultra  fashionables. 

Among  this  number,  Mrs.  Argyle  disdained  to 
count  herself.  Scorning  convention,  she  came  and 
went  according  to  the  comfort  of  the  season  and  to 
the  plans  of  her  husband.  Her  old-fashioned  idea 
of  married  life  included  spending  a  large  part  of  the 
year  in  town,  or  else  so  near  it  that  Mr.  Argyle  could 
come  to  her,  each  afternoon.  Notwithstanding  the 
lifted  eyebrows  of  her  friends,  Mrs.  Argyle  preferred 
Heatherleigh  and  Madison  Avenue  with  her  husband 
to  Newport  and  Lenox  without  him.  She  won  her 
reward,  if  reward  were  needed  for  so  obvious  a  bit 
of  common  sense,  by  the  absolute  devotion  of  her 
other  half. 

"The  old  phrase,  better  half,  has  come  to  lose  its 
meaning,"  she  said  shrewdly  to  Mr.  Argyle,  one  day. 


96  DAY:  HER  YEAR  LV  NEW  YORK 

"The  modern  husband  isn't  much  more  than  a  six- 
teenth, and  the  home  gets  on  as  well  "without  him.  For 
myself,  I'd  rather  starve  and  keep  the  half  I  married." 

And  she  was  as  good  as  her  word.  When  most  of 
his  friends  were  left  to  live  the  life  of  vagrant  cats, 
Mr.  Argyle  was  keeping  open  house  at  Heatherleigh, 
swinging  like  a  pendulum  between  his  office  and  his 
attractive  country  home. 

The  Argyles  always  left  Heatherleigh  by  early 
October.  Day's  school  was  beginning,  and  college 
was  too  near  to  make  it  wise  for  her  to  delay  her 
studies.  Rob,  that  year,  was  destined  for  a  tutor. 
Two  years  before,  he  had  been  in  the  full  tide  of 
Exeter  life,  winning  moderate  success  in  study,  wholly 
immoderate  success  in  the  athletics  of  his  school. 
Then,  in  a  single  instant  of  the  great  game  of  the 
year,  Rob  had  gained  a  lasting  reputation  in  foot- 
ball, together  with  a  wrenched  leg  whose  injury  had 
long  been  bidding  fair  to  outlast  even  his  reputation. 
A  year  of  pain,  more  than  a  year  of  the  self-denial 
which  comes  in  the  train  of  accidents  like  that,  had 
passed  since  then.  But  Rob's  pluck  had  never  failed 
him.  During  all  those  long  months,  he  had  stared  at 
life  with  the  same  undaunted,  merry  blue  eyes  with 
which  he  had  been  wont  to  follow  the  gam  of  his 
rivals  on  the  football  field. 

Now,  almost  free  from  pain  and  limping  but  slightly, 
Rob  was  ready  to  resume  his  preparation  for  col- 
lege; but  both  he  and  his  father  deemed  it  more  wise 
for  him  to  keep  away  from  Exeter.  There  lay 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  97 

the  football  field  —  and  temptation.  Rob's  blood 
leaped  in  his  veins,  as  he  recalled  the  look  of  the  old 
place,  the  scent  of  the  gridiron  fresh  from  an  autumn 
rain,  the  sound  of  the  cheering  crowds  upon  the 
stands,  the  feel  of  the  ball  as  he  spun  it  in  his  hands. 
Then  he  looked  down  at  the  leg  which  still  showed  its 
battle  scars,  and  he  shook  his  head.  No  football  yet 
for  him.  Therefore  he  wished  no  Exeter.  It  was 
the  part  of  wisdom  for  him  to  lie  up  for  another  year, 
on  the  chance  that  his  extra  prudence  be  rewarded 
by  a  gain  sufficient  to  allow  him  to  try  for  the  fresh- 
man team,  when  once  he  was  in  college.  The  doctor 
shook  his  head,  to  be  sure;  but  Rob  refused  to  be 
daunted  by  shakings  of  the  head  and  spoken  warn- 
ings. Many  a  fellow  had  had  a  far  worse  sprain  than 
he,  and  had  come  out  of  it  to  go  down  the  gridiron 
scores  of  times.  In  the  career  of  such  as  these  lay 
the  best  answer  to  the  grave  arraignments  of  the 
game.  And,  meanwhile,  granted  sunshine,  he  would 
proceed  to  make  his  hay. 

Rob  was  a  canny  Scot.  If  a  crammer  must  take 
the  place  of  football,  all  that  season,  Rob  would 
accept  the  fact  as  a  direct  challenge  of  fate.  He 
would  suffer  himself  to  be  crammed  so  far  past  the 
actual  need  that  his  next  year's  work  would  be  half 
done  and,  sure  of  his  standing  in  his  classes,  he  would 
be  free  to  give  his  full  time  to  the  game  he  loved. 
The  crammer  was  the  best  to  be  found  in  the  city; 
and  Rob,  who  was  by  no  means  dull  of  brain,  flung 
himself  into  work  with  headlong  zeal. 


98  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

There  had  been  some  talk,  that  year,  of  sending 
Day  to  a  boarding  school.  Her  veto  and  that  of 
Rob  settled  the  question  speedily.  The  brother  and 
sister  absolutely  refused  to  be  parted.  The  next 
year,  both  would  go  into  college.  This  one  winter 
would  be  the  last  for  many  years  when  they  could  be 
together  in  the  home.  They  begged  so  earnestly  that 
Mrs.  Argyle  yielded  her  cherished  plan  and,  side  by 
side,  the  brother  and  sister  fell  into  their  routines  of 
work.  Day  had  even  asked  to  be  allowed  to  share 
the  services  of  Rob's  tutor;  but  there  Mrs.  Argyle 
stood  firm.  After  all  and  all  in  all,  girls  needed  girl 
companionship.  For  half  the  afternoon  and  all  the 
evening,  Rob  and  Day  might  be  together,  if  they 
chose.  The  mornings  Day  must  spend  hi  school. 

On  the  first  morning,  Rob  watched  her  go,  with 
secret  misgivings.  All  the  past  winter  hi  Canada, 
they  had  been  in  almost  hourly  contact.  It  was 
from  out  that  contact  that  their  present  intimacy 
had  grown.  Before  that  time,  Day  had  found  that 
her  girlish  interests :  her  friends,  her  f recks,  her  young 
festivities  and  frivolities  had  kept  her  far  too  busy  to 
leave  her  any  time  to  think  of  Rob.  In  spite  of 
himself,  Rob  dreaded  her  return  to  the  old  routine 
lest,  with  it,  he  be  relegated  to  his  old  place  in 
a  remote  corner  of  her  plans.  Instead  of  this,  to 
his  surprise,  he  found  Day's  outside  life  increasing, 
rather  than  lessening,  her  appetite  for  his  society; 
and,  as  the  autumn  weeks  went  by,  the  appetite 
still  increased. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  90 

Day's  dancing  class  was  not  for  Rob.  Otherwise, 
that  autumn,  they  did  all  things  together,  from  going 
to  the  same  parties  to  preparing  their  Homer  from 
the  same  old  dictionary  and  at  the  same  hour.  As  a 
matter  of  course,  they  clashed  a  little  now  and  then, 
for  both  were  human,  and  healthy,  and  strong  of 
will.  However,  the  clashes  were  of  short  duration 
and  only  served  to  prove  that,  clashing,  the  metal 
of  their  love  rang  true.  And,  even  in  the  clashings, 
there  seemed  to  be  no  lessening  of  the  desire  of  each 
for  the  other's  company. 

Rob's  boy  friends,  for  the  most  part,  were  away 
at  school;  but  Day's  friends  protested  and  even 
sulked  a  little  now  and  then.  It  was  wasted  prot- 
estation and  sulking,  however.  Day  refused  to  be 
swerved  from  her  allegiance.  Strange  to  say,  she 
was  learning  her  most  lasting  lessons  in  gentleness 
and  girlish  charm  from  her  constant  association  with 
her  blithe  and  wholly  boyish  brother. 

Day's  birthday  gift  from  her  father  had  been  a  fat 
little  pony;  and,  all  through  the  golden  October 
afternoons,  the  girl  went  for  long  rides  through  the 
Park  and  on  to  the  northward,  beside  the  gleaming 
river.  Rob,  as  a  rule,  was  at  her  side,  mounted  on 
the  tall  bay  horse  his  father  had  been  used  to  ride; 
and,  as  they  trotted  along,  many  a  head  turned  to 
smile  after  the  great  blond  boy  and  the  brown-haired 
girl  in  the  trim  brown  habit. 

One  afternoon  in  late  October,  they  had  been  far 
up  the  river  drive.  Returning  in  the  golden  sunset, 


100  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IX  XEW  YORK 

as  they  mounted  the  rise  beside  Grant's  Tomb,  Day 
drew  in  her  pony  to  a  walk. 

"Don't  hurry,  Rob,"  she  begged  him.  "Our 
lessons  are  done.  If  we're  at  home  by  dark,  it  will 
be  soon  enough,  and  afternoons  like  this  can't  last 
forever.  Look!  Isn't  this  better  than  Quebec?" 

As  she  spoke,  she  pointed  to  the  river  at  her  feet 
flowing  softly,  gently  down  between  its  high,  woody 
banks.  Farther  up  the  stream,  the  Palisades,  in 
heavy  shadow,  hung  threatening  above  the  water. 
Beyond  and  below,  the  banks  sank  down  to  a  distant 
level  crowded  with  lofty  walls  and  smoky  chimneys; 
but,  between  the  crowded,  smoky  levels,  the  peace- 
ful river  cut  its  blue  and  tranquil  way  to  the  bluer, 
restless  sea.  Here  and  there,  the  long  blue  stripe 
was  barred  by  a  trail  of  foaming  white  and  gold,  as 
the  falling  sun  caught  the  wake  of  a  passing  ferry. 
The  opposite  heights  were  gay  in  their  autumn  dress 
of  scarlet  and  yellow  and  russet  brown;  and,  close  at 
hand,  the  still  white  tomb  balanced  the  gleaming 
bubble  of  its  dome  against  the  glowing  sky. 

"It  is  very  lovely  here,"  Day  added,  in  a  tone  of 
absolute  content. 

Rob's  answering  words,  however,  brought  her  down 
to  earth  with  a  jolt. 

"I'd  give  a  cent  to  know  what  ails  my  jaw,"  he 
observed,  as  he  prodded  his  cheek  with  an  inquiring 
finger. 

Day  turned  to  him  in  swift  alarm. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  101 

"It's  stiff  and  queer  and  hurts/'  Rob  answered, 
too  intent  upon  his  own  researches  to  heed  the  anxiety 
in  his  sister's  face. 

"You  don't  suppose,"  Day  quavered,  with  a  fear 
which  had  survived  from  the  nights  of  her  remote 
childhood  when  she  had  lulled  herself  to  sleep  with  a 
fold  of  blanket  between  her  teeth,  "you  don't  suppose 
— you  don't  mean  you  think — you've  lockjaw?" 

No  training  in  the  world  could  ever  accustom  Day's 
pony  to  Rob's  sudden  shouts  of  laughter.  Now  Day 
steadied  herself  sharply,  as  the  pony  shied. 

"You've  a  fertile  brain,  Day,"  Rob  assured  her, 
as  soon  as  he  could  speak. 

"Perhaps  it's  mumps, "Day made  consoling  amend- 
ment. 

And  Rob  answered  tersely,  — 

"Then  I'll  go  hang  myself  for  very  shame." 

And  the  subject  was  dropped. 

That  night  at  dinner,  however,  Day  suddenly  dis- 
covered that  her  brother  was  eating  almost  nothing. 
Challenged,  Rob  confessed  that  his  throat  and  jaw 
felt  queer;  it  was  nothing,  and  would  all  be  gone, 
next  day.  Most  likely,  it  was  just  a  little  cold. 
Nevertheless,  he  spent  the  evening  stretched  at  length 
upon  the  library  sofa,  with  Day  beside  him,  em- 
broidery in  hand  and  Jack  Blanchard  sitting  by  the 
fire.  Next  morning,  Rob  Argyle  was  a  candidate 
for  his  own  threatened  hanging.  The  doctor,  coming 
in  early,  had  pronounced  it  a  mild  case  of  mumps, 
and  ordered  the  patient  into  temporary  captivity. 


102  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Rob  growled,  protested,  and  went.  On  the  way, 
however,  he  gave  tongue  to  his  disgust. 

"Confound  it,  'tisn't mumps;  it's  only  half  amump!" 
he  raged.  "It  makes  a  fellow  feel  a  fool  to  have  a 
baby  thing  like  that,  and  then  only  have  it  half  way 
round.  Probably  the  other  side  will  catch  it  next, 
and  I'll  have  two  whole  cases  out  of  one  mumps. 
Oh,  wurra,  wurra,  Day!  Be  thankful  you  had  it 
when  you  were  too  young  to  be  ashamed!"  And, 
as  the  door  opened  to  admit  an  early  guest,  Rob 
turned  and  hurried  up  the  stairs,  to  hide  his  puffy 
countenance. 

Ten  days  later,  Rob's  prophecy  had  so  far  fulfilled 
itself  that  the  Argyle  library  had  taken  upon  itself 
the  look  of  a  hospital  ward  for  contagious  disease. 
Not  only  had  one  side  of  his  face  caught  mumps  of 
the  other;  but  Day  and  Jack  Blanchard  had  caught 
it  as  well,  caught  it,  too,  in  a  generous  and  wholesale 
fashion  that  rounded  out  their  cheeks  to  the  shape 
of  ripening  pumpkins.  Save  for  the  ignominy  and 
the  inordinate  swelling,  however,  there  was  no  especial 
suffering.  Nevertheless,  Rob  had  been  quite  peni- 
tential, when  he  discovered  that  he  had  spread  his 
woes  over  upon  Day.  When,  however,  word  came 
that  Jack's  unwonted  absence  from  the  office  was 
owing  to  the  same  infantile  disease,  Rob  went  off 
into  a  roar  of  laughter  which  eased  his  mind  but  well- 
nigh  cracked  his  cheeks.  That  was  at  night.  Next 
morning,  over  their  trays  which  rested  side  by  side 
on  the  library  table,  Rob  imparted  to  Day  the  brilliant 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  103 

idea  which  had  come  to  him  in  the  stilly  watches  of 
the  night. 

"I  say,"  he  observed  so  suddenly  that  Day,  feeding 
herself  oatmeal  with  the  handle  of  her  spoon,  left 
a  milky  trail  across  the  table;  "I  say,  let's  ask  the 
doctor  if  Jack  can't  be  bundled  up  with  a  blanket 
over  his  head,  and  hauled  up  here.  It  must  be  des- 
perately dull  for  him,  down  in  that  boarding-house. 
Moreover,  we're  none  of  us  very  sick,  neither  are  we 
in  condition  to  make  derisive  comments  about  the 
others.  Let's  have  Jack  come  up  here,  and  we'll 
all  mump  it  out  together." 

As  usually  happened,  Rob's  will  carried  the  day. 
With  some  strategic  skill,  he  planned  the  details  of 
the  moving  and  overruled  the  doctor's  objections  so 
successfully  that,  by  noon,  Jack  Blanchard,  who  had 
lain  awake  half  the  night,  dreading  the  ignominious 
tedium  of  the  next  few  days,  found  himself  luxu- 
riously settled  in  the  Argyle  library,  with  Rob  and 
Day  to  bear  him  company. 

Misery  loves  company,  a  fact  that  is  never  half  so 
true  as  when  misery  arrays  itself  as  clown.  Mumps 
endured  alone  rasp  first  one's  pride  and  then  one's 
temper.  Rob's  mump  party,  as  he  termed  it,  was 
a  distinct  social  success;  and  the  three  young  people, 
despite  their  discomfort,  spent  hour  on  hour  of  mad 
hilarity.  It  was  almost  with  feelings  of  regret  that 
they  watched  the  disease  run  its  course,  and  their 
distended  cheeks  shrink  back  again  towards  their 
more  normal  proportions. 


104  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"You  really  look  quite  peaked,  Day,"  Rob  observed, 
as  he  turned  on  the  lights  in  the  early  darkness  of  a 
November  rain. 

For  his  sole  comment,  Jack  Blanchard  rose,  crossed 
the  room  and  snapped  the  switch. 

"I  refuse  to  see  it,"  he  said,  when  darkness  lay 
over  the  room  once  more. 

"You'd  like  it  to  last,  Jackie?"  Rob  inquired  tran- 
quilly. 

"Why  not?  I've  never  had  a  better  time  in  my  life." 

"I  have,"  Day  made  sudden  protest.  "I  love  to 
be  with  you  boys,  and  we  have  had  good  fun;  but 
I  begin  to  long  for  an  olive,  and  my  whole  soul  cries 
out  to  gnaw  an  apple.  Still,  — ' 

Jack  took  the  words  from  her  lips. 

"Still,"  he  observed  calmly,  as  he  clasped  his 
hands  at  the  back  of  his  head  and  gave  a  carefully- 
guarded  yawn;  "still,  I  fancy  the  time  will  come 
when  we'd  none  of  us  care  to  forget  the  experience." 

"Fancy  a  quarantine  before  the  days  of  telephon- 
ing!" Rob  suggested  lazily,  as  he  crossed  to  the  rug 
and  threw  himself  down  on  the  floor  with  one  elbow 
resting  on  the  corner  of  Day's  chair,  drawn  up  before 
the  blaze. 

"Oh,  what  did  Sidney  say,  to-day?"  Day  queried 
suddenly. 

"Nothing,  only  jeered  at  us  as  usual.  In  spite  of 
your  experience,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Bungay,  she 
said  she'd  have  risked  a  second  attack,  for  the  sake 
of  seeing  how  you  look," 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  LV  NEW  YORK  105 

"You  look!"  Day  echoed.  "At  least,  I  matched 
on  both  sides.  I  used  to  be  afraid  you  would  tip 
over,  whenever  you  stood  up  on  your  feet.  You 
looked  like  a  ship  with  all  the  ballast  on  one  side." 

Rob  heaved  a  tremendous  sigh. 

"And  felt  like  a  ship  without  any  ballast  at  all," 
he  added  ruefully.  "That  was  what  I  hated  most, 
the  being  starved  for  good  solid  food  and  having  to 
eat  chickendough." 

Stooping  forward,  Day  looked  down  into  his  merry 
blue  eyes,  upraised  to  hers  in  the  firelight.  Then, 
with  caressing  fingers,  she  fell  to  parting  his  yellow 
hair  which  he  had  rumpled  against  her  knee. 

"Poor  old  Rob!  You  had  a  double  dose,"  she 
consoled  him.  "But  it  did  one  good  thing,  forcing 
Jack  to  take  some  sort  of  a  vacation." 

"Vacation!  Thanks,  I'll  take  the  office,"  Jack 
suggested  hastily. 

"How  ungrateful  of  you!"  Day  objected  gayly. 
"Next  time,  we'll  leave  you  to  mump  along  alone." 

Jack's  eyes  showed  his  penitence,  his  trouble,  too, 
at  his  seeming  indifference  to  all  their  kindness. 
Older  than  Rob  by  five  or  six  years,  graver  by  reason 
of  the  responsibilities  which  life  had  heaped  upon 
him,  now  and  then  he  felt  himself  an  alien  to  their 
merry  tilting.  For  the  most  part,  the  Argyles' 
cordial  welcome  to  their  home  had  made  him  forget 
that,  in  reality,  he  was  an  acquaintance  of  but  a 
few  weeks'  standing,  that,  in  reality,  his  world  was 
not  the  same  as  theirs.  Occasionally,  however,  the 


106  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

memory  came  back  to  him  and  took  something  from 
his  complete  content.  It  was  always  Rob  who  first 
recognized  the  mood,  and  Rob  who  could  always  drive 
it  from  him.  Once  won,  the  loyalty  of  Rob  Argyle 
was  practically  undying.  Side  by  side,  one  stormy 
winter  night,  Jack  Blanchard  and  Rob  Argyle  had 
tasted  danger  in  one  of  its  bitterest  forms.  From 
that  night  and  from  the  long,  tiresome  day  that  had 
gone  before,  had  dated  Rob's  loyalty  to  Jack. 

"No;  we  won't,  then,"  he  interposed  now,  before 
Jack  could  reply.  "You  needn't  think  I  would  have 
endured  a  week  of  it,  shut  up  here  with  nothing  but 
a  girl  for  company.  However,  Jack,  I  think  it  is 
about  as  well  for  you  to  take  a  rest.  Do  you  realize 
you  haven't  had  a  half-day  off,  since  you  came  down 
with  us,  last  April?" 

"Off  from  what?"  Jack  queried,  as  he  came  for- 
ward to  take  the  chair  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  rug. 

"Grinding,"  Rob  said  succinctly. 

Jack  bent  forward,  seized  the  tongs  and  fell  to 
prodding  the  fire. 

"Not  any  grind  about  it,"  he  objected.  "I  like 
the  office." 

"What  if  you  do?  That's  no  reason  you  should 
take  root  there." 

But  Jack  ignored  Rob's  interruption. 

"And  the  work,"  he  added. 

"In  moderation,  yes,"  Rob  commented  again. 

"And  your  father  is  very  good  to  me." 

This  time,  Day  looked  up. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  LV  NEW  YORK  107 

"Of  course.  Daddy  is  good  to  everybody.  But 
tell  me,  Jack,  did  you  have  any  fun,  this  summer?" 

"I  spent  four  Sundays  at  Heatherleigh,"  he  re- 
minded her,  with  a  smile. 

"And  it  was  your  own  fault  that  you  didn't  spend 
four  more,"  Rob  gave  counter  reminder. 

Jack  laid  the  tongs  down,  rose  and  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  fire.  To  Day's  young  eyes,  he  looked 
very  tall  and  dignified,  in  spite  of  his  swollen  face. 

"I  came  here  to  be  your  father's  secretary,"  he 
said  then;  "not  to  be  your  mother's  guest." 

Rob  settled  himself  at  ease,  his  head  in  Day's  lap, 
his  long  legs  spread  out  across  the  rug.  Then  he 
made  placid  answer,  — 

"Rubbish!" 

"What's  the  matter,  Jack?"  Day  inquired  dis- 
approvingly. "Are  you  getting  cranky,  or  only  just 
bored?" 

"Neither.  I'm  only  afraid  you'll  spoil  me  till  I 
get  flabby,"  he  replied  gravely.  "For  a  fact,  Day, 
it's  not  good  for  me  to  be  here  so  much." 

"Why  not?"  she  asked,  with  a  directness  which 
matched  his  own. 

"It  spoils  me  for  the  other  thing.  I'm  here  to 
work,  to  learn  a  new  business  and,  in  time,  to  make 
myself  a  record  in  it.  Instead  — " 

Day  brought  her  hands  down  on  Rob's  hair  with  an 
unconscious  force  which  made  him  wince. 

"Instead  —  what?  Instead  of  your  spending  all 
your  evenings  in  a  stupid  boarding-house,  we  have 


108  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

you  come  here  now  and  then.  What  of  it? 
Wouldn't  your  mother  do  the  same  by  Rob, '  if  he 
were  living  alone  in  Toronto?  If  not,  I  shouldn't 
think  much  of  her.  And  do  you  think  my  mother 
isn't  as  thoughtful  as  your  mother  would  be?  Non- 
sense!" 

Rob  dodged  again,  at  the  very  fervour  of  her  tone. 
Day  laughed,  while  she  laid  a  reassuring  hand  upon 
his  yellow  head.  Then  once  more  she  faced  back  to 
Jack. 

" Besides,  what  if  you  are  here? "  she  urged.  "What 
if  you  were  here,  every  single  evening  in  the  week? 
Would  you  work  any  less  because  you  had  been  play- 
ing, between  times?  That's  nonsense,  too.  Nobody 
ever  works  half  as  well,  until  he's  learned  to  play; 
and  that  is  what  we're  trying  to  teach  you." 

But  Jack  turned  his  back  to  the  fire  and  offered 
remonstrance. 

"Confound  it,  Day,  that's  not  what  I  mean  at  all! 
The  trouble  is,  I  like  to  play  too  well.  Don't  you 
suppose  I  loved  to  be  out  at  Heatherleigh?  And  now, 
these  last  ten  days,  in  spite  of  untoward  circum- 
stances, I've  had  so  good  a  time  that  I  hate  like  mad 
the  idea  of  going  back  down  town,  next  Monday." 

Day,  leaning  back  in  her  deep  chair,  looked  up  at 
him  with  dancing  eyes. 

"What  makes  you  go,  then?"  she  demanded 
saucily. 

"Duty." 

"What  duty?" 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  109 

"To  my  landlady's  grub,"  Jack  made  answer. 

"Stay  and  grub  here,"  Rob  advised  him,  without 
troubling  himself  to  stir. 

"Alas,  I'm  convalescent,"  Jack  said  gloomily. 
"By  Monday,  I  shall  be  out  of  danger,  and  driven 
out  from  quarantine." 

"Nonsense!"  This  time,  Day  shook  Rob's  yellow 
head  from  her  knee  and,  rising,  she  stood  at  Jack's 
side,  looking  up  into  his  intent  face.  "Do  you 
know,"  she  added;  "when  you  first  came  down  here, 
my  father  wanted  to  have  you  in  the  house.  My 
mother  wouldn't  let  him,  though,  because — " 

The  scarlet  tide  rolled  up  across  Jack's  cheeks,  as 
he  stood  looking  down  into  her  eyes  with  steady 
inquiry. 

"Because?" 

"Because,"  Day  went  on  demurely;  "both  she  and 
Rob  thought  you'd  feel  more  independent,  if  you 
were  free  to  go  your  way,  after  office  hours." 

For  an  instant,  Jack  turned  and  rested  upon  Rob 
a  look  of  ineffable  scorn.  Then,  — 

"Rob,  you  idiot!"  he  said. 


110  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  NINE 

"  "\7~ES,  Jack  moved  up  here,  last  night,"  Day  told 

-*-     Sidney,  two  days  later. 

"To  stay?" 

"As  long  as  he  will.  My  father  likes  to  have  his 
secretary  within  reach,  in  case  something  comes  up 
in  a  hurry.  Jack  is  so  faithful,  my  father  says,  that 
it  seems  too  bad  to  put  a  single  care  on  him,  out  of 
office  hours.  Still,  — " 

Sidney  nodded. 

"Still,  I  can  see  that  it  would  be  more  convenient 
to  have  him  here  in  the  house.  Besides,"  she  glanced 
about  the  luxurious  room;  "it  must  be  lovely  for  him." 

"I  hope  he  appreciates  it,"  Phyllis  said  grimly, 
from  her  seat  just  inside  the  hall  door. 

"He  looks  to  do,"  Rob  answered,  from  the  next 
chair  where  he  had  settled  himself  dutifully  to  seek 
to  entertain  their  reluctant  guest. 

Phyllis  smoothed  down  the  lap  of  her  gray  woollen 
gown,  then  she  clasped  her  gray  woollen  gloves  de- 
murely. 

"Of  course,  I  have  never  seen  much  of  him,  and  I 
couldn't  tell,"  she  explained,  with  smug  literalness. 
"So  few  young  men  have  such  an  opportunity,  that 
I  hoped  he  would  make  the  best  of  it." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  111 

Rob  laughed. 

"You  would  have  said  he  was  making  the  most  of 
it,  if  you'd  been  here,  last  night.  Eh,  Day?"  he 
queried. 

However,  Phyllis  corrected  him. 

"I  said  the  best,  not  the  most,"  she  asserted,  and 
Rob  subsided  until  he  could  assimilate  his  mirth. 

"Really,  we  do  enjoy  having  him  here,"  Day  added 
to  Sidney.  "He's  always  so  kind,  and  mother  says 
he  is  one  of  the  best-mannered  men  she  has  ever 
known.  We  aren't  to  see  so  very  much  of  him, 
though.  He  is  at  the  office,  all  day  long;  and,  three 
nights  a  week,  he  has  some  sort  of  lessons.  Still,  he's 
in  and  out,  a  good  deal  as  your  cousin  is,  and  I  think 
we  all  like  the  having  him  about." 

"Of  course,  he  eats  at  second  table,  I  suppose," 
Phyllis  averred  suddenly. 

Sidney  turned  scarlet.  Before  she  could  reply, 
however,  Rob  had  struck  in. 

"Oh,  no,  Phil;  he  has  a  manger  in  the  barn,"  he 
assured  her  tranquilly.  "The  cook  takes  him  out 
the  scraps,  after  each  meal.  Jack  says  he  gets  pretty 
good  picking,  too." 

Phyllis  glared  at  him  in  swift  hostility.  Suspect- 
ing a  joke,  she  was  yet  unable  to  discover  its  where- 
abouts, and  Phyllis  Stayre  hated  nothing  so  much  as 
to  be  pricked  with  the  point  of  a  joke  she  could  not 
see. 

"For  my  part,"  she  declared;  "I  would  rather  eat 
the  crust  of  independence." 


112  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Jiminy,  Phil!  Where  did  you  get  all  that?" 
Rob  asked,  with  feigned  consternation  at  the  sound- 
ing phrase. 

Sidney  judged  it  wise  to  hasten  her  departure. 

"Phyllis  has  been  reading  dictionary,"  she  said 
lightly,  as  she  rose.  "  Day,  I  truly  must  be  starting. 
We  only  ran  in  for  a  minute,  on  our  way  up  town." 

"I  didn't  want  to  come,  anyway;  but  Sidney  made 
me,"  Phyllis  added,  determined  not  to  be  suppressed. 

Sidney  resolved  to  have  peace  at  any  price.  Lack- 
ing a  muzzle,  she  would  throw  a  sop. 

"I  know,  dear.  You  were  tired,  and  I  teased  you. 
But  I  really  will  come  now,"  she  said,  with  a  meek- 
ness she  was  far  from  feeling. 

"I'm  not  tired.  I  only  didn't  see  any  sense  in 
coming,"  Phyllis  said  contradictiously. 

Under  this  second  rebuff,  Sidney  coloured,  and 
Day,  watching,  pitied  her  acutely.  At  her  very  best, 
Phyllis  would  be  a  trial.  At  her  worst,  she  was  well- 
nigh  insupportable.  And  Sidney  had  to  put  up  with 
her,  week  in,  week  out.  Day  shuddered  at  the 
thought.  Then  she  gripped  her  courage  in  one  hand, 
while  she  laid  the  other  hand  on  Sidney's  shoulder. 

"Sit  down  again  and  talk  to  Rob,"  she  bade  her. 
"  You  must  have  any  number  of  things  to  gossip  over, 
and  I've  something  I  want  to  show  to  Phyllis,  up  in 
my  room.  Come,  Phyllis."  And,  seizing  the  girl  by 
one  lank  gray  elbow,  Day  led  her  up  the  stairs,  won- 
dering all  the  way  what  she  should  do  with  her  unto- 
ward guest. 


to  AY:  HER  \>EAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


When  Jack  Blanchard  came  through  the  hall,  a 
half-hour  later,  they  were  still  up-stairs,  and  Day 
thanked  her  lucky  stars  that  it  was  so.  By  dint  of 
keeping  up  a  cheery  and  one-sided  conversation,  by 
dint  of  showing  trinkets  which  Phyllis  eyed  with  out- 
ward scorn  and  inward  envy,  Day  had  succeeded  in 
bridging  over  thirty  long  minutes  while  Sidney,  below 
stairs,  could  have  time  for  a  little  rational  and  care- 
free talk  with  Rob.  Up  to  this  point  in  her  acquaint- 
ance with  Phyllis  Stayre,  Day  had  found  her  very 
presence  death  to  any  conversation.  Phyllis  either 
derailed  the  talk  by  means  of  some  unexpected 
utterance,  or  else  smothered  it  beneath  the  crushing 
weight  of  her  disapproving  silence.  Even  Rob's 
jovial  banter  faltered  and  flagged,  when  Phyllis  was 
at  hand.  Day,  from  sheer  force  of  conscience,  gen- 
erally succeeded  in  keeping  up  a  random  fire  of  com- 
monplaces, but  only  enough  of  those  to  bridge  the 
pauses.  In  the  intervals  of  her  commonplaces,  how- 
ever, Day  was  prone  to  wonder  whether  it  was  more 
inconvenient  to  have  Phyllis  talk  or  to  have  Phyllis 
keep  still.  As  a  rule,  she  was  unable  to  decide  the  ques- 
tion. To-day,  however,  the  decision  was  for  silence. 
Phyllis's  mind  seemed  to  be  running  upon  the  subject 
of  Jack  Blanchard,  and  Jack  Blanchard  was  not  the 
youth  to  relish  the  hint  that  he  would  find  his  proper 
place  somewhere  in  the  rear  of  the  butler's  pantry. 

Jack  came  up  the  front  steps,  two  at  a  time,  let 
himself  into  the  hall  and  stopped  on  the  library 
threshold  long  enough  to  exchange  greetings  with 


114  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Sidney  and  Rob.  Then,  still  two  steps  at  a  time,  he 
mounted  the  stairs  towards  his  own  room.  Day's 
door  stood  open,  and,  as  she  heard  his  step  coming 
towards  her,  she  held  her  breath.  Then  she  began 
to  talk  rapidly,  in  the  hope  of  distracting  Phyllis's 
attention.  In  vain. 

"Who  is  that?"  Phyllis  inquired,  disdaining  the 
book  which  Day  was  holding  out  for  her  inspection. 

"  Where?"  Day  asked  as  innocently  as  she  was  able. 

Phyllis  cast  upon  her  a  glance  of  chiding. 

"You  can't  put  me  off  like  that,  Day;  I'm  not  a 
baby,"  she  observed,  with  chill  displeasure.  "You 
know  quite  well  what  I  mean,  and  you  may  as  well 
answer.  Who  is  that  in  the  hall  outside?" 

"That?"  Day  spoke  nonchalantly.  "That's  Mr. 
Blanchard." 

"Oh."  Phyllis  endeavoured  to  smooth  her  hair; 
but  unfortunately  she  collided  with  her  hat  and 
knocked  it  awry.  It  took  some  time  for  her  to 
straighten  it,  more  time  for  her  to  recover  from  her 
passing  vexation  at  having  missed  both  her  aim  and 
her  point.  Accordingly,  Jack  had  passed  on  up  the 
second  flight  of  stairs  and  out  of  hearing,  before  she 
could  aim  another  shaft.  "Oh,  do  you  let  him  use 
the  front  stairs?"  she  demanded  then. 

Day's  eyes  snapped,  but  she  held  on  to  her  temper. 

"Apparently,"  she  made  brief  answer. 

However,  Phyllis  was  in  a  contrary  mood.  The 
events  of  the  day  had  rubbed  her  the  wrong  way. 
That  morning,  in  one  of  her  periodical  descents  upon 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  115 

the  kitchen,  she  had  announced  her  intention  of 
making  sponge  cake  for  her  father's  especial  delec- 
tation. Unfortunately,  Bungay  and  a  broken  top 
had  appeared  upon  the  scene  at  a  critical  moment; 
and,  as  result  of  their  appearing,  long  after  the  cake 
was  in  the  oven,  Phyllis  had  discovered  the  unused 
sugar  beneath  the  empty  eggshells.  Before  she  had  had 
tune  to  recover  from  that  woe,  her  mother  had  decreed 
that  Sidney  must  go  with  her  to  buy  a  long-discussed 
new  gown.  Sidney  had  begun  her  misdoings  by 
vetoing  a  frock  of  muddy  brown  and  insisting  that, 
in  its  place,  Phyllis  should  choose  a  warm,  dark  red, 
touched  here  and  there  with  black.  The  mirror  had 
borne  out  Sidney's  judgment;  but  Phyllis  had  turned 
her  back  upon  them  both  and  had  made  open  prot- 
estation. Sidney  had  smiled  inscrutably,  had  paid 
for  the  red  frock  and  then  had  chosen  a  feather  to 
go  with  it,  while  Phyllis  had  stood  by,  in  futile  rebel- 
lion. Had  she  been  but  six  years  old,  her  wishes 
could  have  been  regarded  no  less.  And  she  was 
denied  the  comforting  repinings  of  the  six-year-old, 
the  repinings  that  express  themselves  by  means  of 
tears  and  kickings  of  the  carpet. 

At  Sidney's  heels,  she  left  the  shop,  silent,  chin  in 
air  and  teeth  shut  cornerwise.  Outside  the  shop, 
Sidney  completed  the  list  of  her  misdemeanours  by 
announcing  her  intention  of  a  call  upon  the  Argyles 
on  her  way  up  town.  And  Phyllis  felt  no  love  for 
the  two  Argyles,  for  Rob  by  reason  of  his  teasing, 
for  Day  because  she  appeared  to  be  so  daintily  superior 


116  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

to  all  the  sharp  corners  of  Phyllis's  own  frame  of 
mind  and  body.  Accordingly,  by  the  time  she  was 
inside  the  Argyle  house,  Phyllis  Stayre  was  ready  to 
perch  herself  on  a  corner  of  the  most  uncompromising 
chair  and  take  it  out  on  some  one  with  a  right  good 
will.  Only  chance  decreed  that  Jack  Blanchard 
should  be  her  point  of  attack.  Phyllis  had  seen  Jack 
once  and  yet  again.  She  had  liked  him,  as  far  as  it 
lay  in  her  crossgrained  little  soul  to  like  any  stranger. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  the  first  issue  which  had  pre- 
sented itself,  and  she  promptly  took  her  stand  upon 
the  opposition.  To  her  annoyance,  Rob  had  been 
impervious  to  her  shots;  but  not  so  Day.  Down- 
stairs, it  had  been  wholly  manifest  to  Phyllis  that  her 
hostess  longed  to  box  her  ears.  Up-stairs,  for  an 
instant,  Phyllis  felt  sure  that  the  longing  would  turn 
to  achievement.  However,  in  Phyllis's  present  frame 
of  mind,  a  box  on  the  ear  would  have  been  a  mere 
detail,  leading  to  Day's  need  for  apologetic  self- 
abasement  and  her  own  opportunity  to  utter  right- 
eous truths.  She  saw  with  malign  pleasure  the  flash 
of  anger  in  Day's  eyes,  saw  with  sincere  regret  its 
passing.  She  essayed  a  second  stroke. 

"Of  course,  we  only  keep  one  servant,"  she  went 
on;  "but  we  always  insist  that  she  shall  come  up 
the  back  stairs." 

Upon  more  than  one  occasion,  Day  had  watched 
old  Mary's  slatternly  heels  go  plodding  up  the  Stayres' 
front  flight.  Nevertheless,  she  disdained  the  fable, 
and  attacked  the  moral. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  117 

"Jack  is  no  servant,"  she  said  shortly. 

Phyllis  opened  her  eyes  wide  and  rubbed  the  end 
of  her  long  nose. 

"Why  not?     He  serves  your  father;  doesn't  he?" 

Careless  of  its  morocco  binding,  Day  tossed  her 
book  to  the  table. 

"He  is  Rob's  friend,"  she  retorted. 

Phyllis  beamed  in  carefully-manufactured  approval. 

"Sidney  has  always  said  that  Rob  was  very  demo- 
cratic," she  vouchsafed. 

"And  mine,"  Day  added  tartly. 

With  a  yawn,  Phyllis  rose. 

"Oh,  well,  he's  hardly  worth  arguing  about,"  she 
said  loftily.  "  Did  you  really  have  something  to  show 
me,  Day?  If  not,  we'd  better  go  back  down-stairs. 
Sidney  may  be  getting  in  a  hurry.  It  is  Saturday 
afternoon,  and  her  stockings  aren't  mended  yet." 

"Possibly  you  could  lend  her  some,  in  case  hers 
don't  get  ready  to  wear,"  Day  suggested. 

The  shot  went  home,  for  Phyllis's  feet  were  her 
one  vanity,  and  always  neatly  clad. 

"Sidney  wears  a  number  four  shoe,"  she  made 
prompt  answer. 

Another  flash,  this  time  of  mischief,  came  into 
Day's  brown  eyes. 

"So  much  the  better;  then  she  won't  stretch  your 
stockings.  Did  you  say  you'd  like  to  go  down-stairs?  " 

"Yes,"  Phyllis  replied  brusquely.  "It's  time  Sid- 
ney and  I  were  going." 

Privately  Day  shared  her  opinion,  and  she  lost 


118  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IX  XEW  YORK 

no  time  in  leading  the  way  back  to  the  library  where 
they  had  left  Sidney,  with  Rob  at  her  side.  They 
found  two  easy-chairs  drawn  up  beside  the  glowing 
coals;  but  Rob  had  vanished  and  taken  Sidney  with 
him.  Even  Day  who,  as  a  rule,  was  mistress  of  any 
situation,  looked  about  her  blankly.  A  very  little 
of  Phyllis,  she  had  found,  went  a  very  long  way. 

" Excuse  me,"  she  said.  "Sit  down,  and  I'll  go 
and  look  them  up." 

Phyllis  deliberately  made  a  survey  of  the  room, 
deliberately  chose  the  least  comfortable  chair,  delib- 
erately seated  herself  upon  its  extreme  edge. 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me,"  she  said  then.  "I'm  quite 
used  to  being  left." 

Nearly  an  hour  later,  she  was  still  sitting  there  in 
sole  possession  of  the  field.  The  moments  dragged 
wearily  by;  but  Phyllis  had  relaxed  no  whit  of  her 
dignity  which  still  manifested  itself  by  means  of  the 
aggressive  straightness  of  her  spine,  by  the  uncom- 
promising fashion  in  which  her  feet  were  planted  on  the 
floor.  Now  and  then  she  chafed  her  nose;  now  and 
then  she  rubbed  back  her  hair;  now  and  then  her  lips 
moved  slightly,  as  she  rehearsed  to  herself  the  crush- 
ing words  with  which  she  would  greet  the  truants' 
return.  Then  she  folded  her  hands  anew  and  shut 
her  teeth.  No  hostile  eye,  peering  around  some 
distant  corner,  should  ever  be  able  to  affirm  that 
Phyllis,  waiting,  had  arranged  herself  at  her  ease. 

The  house  was  very  still.  Only  the  ticking  of  the 
clocks  broke  the  silence,  the  clicking  alarm  for  the 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  119 

hour,  and  then  the  hour  itself.  Five  o'clock!  Phyllis 
smothered  a  yawn;  then  once  more  assured  herself, 
by  a  hasty  touch,  that  her  lips  were  rigid.  Far  away 
up-stairs,  she  heard  the  sudden  opening  of  a  door. 
Then  steps  came  slowly  down  the  stairs.  She 
straightened  herself  yet  more,  and  hitched  a  bit 
nearer  the  front  edge  of  the  chair.  Rob  was  coming 
back  alone,  probably  to  tell  her  that  Day  had  coaxed 
Sidney  to  stay  to  dine.  Phyllis  could  imagine  just 
how  he  would  come  strolling  in,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  nonchalantly  deliver  himself  of  his 
message.  Swiftly  she  set  to  work  to  compose  her 
answer;  but  the  answer  was  only  half  ready  when 
she  realized  that  it  was  not  Rob,  after  all,  who  was 
coming  down  the  stairs.  The  footfall,  though  as 
slow  as  his,  was  perfectly  even  in  its  beat.  The  next 
instant,  Jack  Blanchard  stood  on  the  threshold,  and 
Phyllis,  whose  god  was  neatness,  took  swift  note  of 
the  fact  that  Jack  had  emerged  from  his  leisurely 
toilet,  fresh  and  sleek  and  crisp  as  a  man  could  be. 

At  sight  of  Phyllis,  tentatively  seated  in  a  corner 
of  the  room  and  quite  alone,  Jack  halted  in  surprise. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Phyllis?  Where  are  the 
others?" 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know."  Phyllis's  tone  was  of 
crushing  finality. 

"Haven't  you  seen  them?" 

"Not  for  some  time." 

Jack  misconstrued  the  hostility  of  her  tone  into 
injured  feelings. 


120  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Why,  you  poor  little  chap!"  he  said,  with  off- 
hand kindliness.  "I'll  go  and  call  them  for  you." 

From  behind  their  spectacles,  the  pale  eyes  shot 
upon  him  one  glare  of  indignation.  Then  Phyllis 
said  icily,  — 

"No  need,  thank  you.     They  know  I  am  here." 

"Oh.  Then  they'll  be  coming  soon?"  Jack's 
accent  was  interrogative. 

"It  is  impossible  to  say."  Phyllis  spoke  with 
nippy  brevity. 

Into  Jack  Blanchard's  keen  brown  eyes  there  came 
a  sudden  flash  of  humour.  Phyllis  was  a  specimen 
new  to  his  experience.  Having  no  desire  to  own 
her,  he  yet  confessed  to  himself  a  deep  desire  to  have 
more,  much  more,  of  her  conversation.  He  strode 
across  the  room  and  gave  an  inviting  twitch  to  one 
of  the  chairs  before  the  fire. 

"  You  might  as  well  be  comfortable,  while  you  wait," 
he  suggested  hospitably. 

"I  am  quite  comfortable,  thank  you." 

Jack's  eyes  twinkled. 

"Stiff  in  your  spine?"  he  queried  irrepressibly. 

"No." 

Then  silence  descended  upon  the  room. 

With  perfect  unconcern,  Jack  dropped  down  into 
the  unoccupied  chair,  bent  forward  to  punch  the 
blaze,  then  settled  himself  at  his  ease  and  waited, 
his  fingers  meditatively  arched  before  him,  and  his 
brown  eyes  on  the  girl  who  held  her  place,  grim  and 
motionless,  beside  the  door.  The  most  captious 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  121 

critic  could  have  discovered  nothing  at  all  discourte- 
ous in  his  manner.  Finding  Phyllis  there  alone,  he 
had  done  his  best  to  engage  her  in  conversation. 
Phyllis,  however,  had  refused  to  be  engaged,  and 
now  his  obvious  duty  was  to  await  her  pleasure. 
He  found  it  slow  in  coming. 

Underneath  her  grim  exterior,  however,  Phyllis  was 
conscious  that  the  moments  were  passing  laggmgly, 
each  one  longer  than  the  last  had  been.  She  had 
rashly  chosen  her  seat  in  a  corner  whence  she  could 
only  see  the  clock  by  bending  forward  in  her  chair. 
Under  Jack's  merry,  steady  eyes,  it  would  have  been 
undignified  to  crane  her  neck  too  often.  She  fell  to 
counting  the  seconds  as  they  passed,  marking  the 
completed  moments  on  her  fingers,  and  beginning 
again  at  one.  At  the  end  of  the  third  minute,  how- 
ever, Jack  cleared  his  throat  and  she  lost  count. 
Patiently  she  began  again;  but,  midway  through  the 
fifth  minute,  she  was  assailed  by  an  itching  between 
her  shoulderblades,  and  she  lost  count  again  while 
she  made  surreptitious  efforts  to  scratch  her  back 
against  the  corner  of  her  chair  without  her  com- 
panion's being  aware  of  the  fact.  Then  a  cramp 
developed  itself  in  her  right  little  toe,  followed  by  a 
distinct  crawling  sensation,  as  of  a  spider  on  the  back 
of  her  neck.  Phyllis  hated  spiders,  and  this  one  felt 
to  be  all  legs. 

"U — uh!"  she  said,  almost  involuntarily. 

Jack  sat  up. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  with  swift  courtesy. 


122  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Phyllis  plucked  at  the  top  of  her  collar. 

"What  for?"  she  demanded,  as  she  plucked  again. 

"I  thought  you  spoke." 

A  third  plucking  brought  away  a  bit  of  thread 
frayed  from  the  collar's  edge;  but,  by  this  time,  Phyl- 
lis's  temper  was  frayed  far  more  than  was  her  collar. 

"Well,  I  didn't!"  she  snapped.  "At  least,  not  to 
you." 

This  time,  Jack  Blanchard's  eyes  widened  and  lost) 
their  twinkle.  To  his  English  turn  of  mind,  most 
things  were  to  be  expected  in  an  American  girl;  but 
Phyllis  Stayre  possessed  more  unexpectedness  than 
even  he  could  pardon  in  her  race.  Eight  years 
younger  than  he,  the  girl  seemed  to  him  a  mere  child, 
fractious  and  petulant.  Nevertheless,  he  still  ad- 
dressed her  with  the  courtesy  which,  forfeited  by  her 
rudeness,  he  yet  felt  was  due  to  her  girlhood. 

"I  am  sorry  you  feel  like  that,  Miss  Phyllis,"  he 
said  gravely.  "What  have  I  done?" 

Phyllis's  voice  went  up  an  octave. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  said,  with  what  she  intended 
for  crushing  finality. 

Day,  meanwhile,  had  found  Rob  and  Sidney  in  the 
large  conservatory  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Sidney's 
hands  were  full  of  blossoms,  and  now  the  two  friends 
stood  leaning  on  the  edge  of  the  aquarium,  watching 
the  goldfish  come  to  the  surface  to  tease  for  food. 
Day  joined  them  there,  and  they  stood  together  for  a 
long  time,  talking  idly  of  this  thing  and  of  that,  of 
Day's  school  and  of  Sidney's,  of  Jack  Blanchard's 


"The  two  friends  stood  leaning  on  the  edge  of  the  aquarium." 
Page  122. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  123 

coming  to  live  among  them,  then,  by  way  of  Jack's 
past,  of  the  good  friends  they  had  left  behind  them 
in  Canada.  Time  spent  in  happy  reminiscence  passes 
quickly;  but  at  length  Sidney  roused  herself  with  a 
start  and  glanced  down  at  her  watch. 

"Dear  me!"  she  said  in  consternation.  "We  have 
been  here  ages,  and  I  forgot  all  about  Phyllis." 

Rob's  laugh  was  as  free  from  all  malice  as  was  his 
downright  question,  — 

"Well,  do  you  mind  much?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  directly;  "I  do.  That  is,  some- 
times. This  is  one  of  Phyllis's  days.  She  has  them 
now  and  then,  and  then  I  always  worry  .for  fear  of 
what  she'll  say  next.  At  home,  we're  used  to  it;  but 
other  people  — " 

"Won't  stand  it,  the  way  you  do?"  Day  asked, 
laughing,  for  Phyllis's  eccentricities  were  so  obvious 
as  to  make  it  impossible  to  ignore  them. 

Rob,  however,  interposed. 

"Won't  give  her  credit  for  the  really  decent  stuff 
she's  made  of,"  he  corrected.  "Phyllis's  crankiness 
is  skin  deep.  Some  day,  she'll  slough  her  skin." 

"I  wish  she  would,  and  soon,"  Sidney  made  anxious 
answer.  "Where  did  you  leave  her,  Day?" 

"In  the  library.  I  ought  to  have  brought  her 
along,"  Day  said  penitently;  "but  she  had  been  so 
bored,  up-stairs,  and  I  had  hardly  seen  you  at  all. 
Besides,  I  thought  I'd  only  be  gone  a  minute." 

"And  you  liked  us  better  than  you  meant,  and 
stayed  according"  Rob  capped  her  sentence  for  her. 


124  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Well,  never  mind;  the  mischief's  done,  so  there  is 
no  use  in  mourning  for  your  sins,  at  this  late  day. 
Come  along  and  find  your  nettle."  And  he  led  the 
way,  with  Sidney  at  his  side,  out  from  the  conserva- 
tory, through  the  house  and  towards  the  library  door. 

On  the  threshold,  still  with  Sidney  at  his  side,  he 
halted.  In  one  of  the  chairs  before  the  fire  Jack 
Blanchard  was  seated,  and  Jack  was  speaking. 

"What  have  I  done,  Miss  Phyllis?"  he  was  asking, 
for  the  second  time. 

And  from  a  distant  corner  behind  the  door  came 
Phyllis's  answer,  frigidly  distinct,  — 

"Nothing  at  all,  Mr.  Blanchard.  It's  only  that 
I'm  not  Day  Argyle.  I've  never  travelled  very  much; 
but,  when  I  did,  my  father  always  told  me  not  to  talk 
to  any  brakeman." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  125 


CHAPTER  TEN 

PT1HAT  same  evening,  Jack  Blanchard  mounted 
•*•  the  Stayre  front  steps,  rang  the  bell  and  asked 
for  Sidney. 

"I  knew  I'd  find  you  worrying,"  he  said,  directly 
she  came  into  the  room.  "All  in  all,  I  thought  the 
best  thing  I  could  do,  was  to  come  up  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, and  laugh  it  out."  Then  he  dropped  Sidney's 
hand  and  moved  a  chair  a  bit  nearer  the  crackling 
fire.  "We  both  of  us  know  the  child  ought  to  have 
been  shut  up  in  a  dark  closet,"  he  said  then,  with  a 
laugh  so  infectious  that  Sidney,  perforce,  joined  in  it. 
"Still,  she  is  rather  large  for  such  discipline.  I'm 
sorry,  though,  you  had  the  worry  of  it." 

Dropping  into  the  chair,  Sidney  faced  him  with 
eyes  as  level  and  keen  as  were  his  own. 

"It  was  nice  of  you  to  come,"  she  told  him.  "Not 
many  men  would  have  been  so  forgiving." 

He  laughed  again,  as  he  took  the  chair  at  the  oppo- 
site end  of  the  rug. 

"There  wasn't  anything  to  forgive.  She  had  a 
pain  in  her  temper,  and  she  stuck  out  her  claws.  It 
was  only  chance  that  put  me,  and  not  you  or  Rob,  in 
the  way  of  them.  There  was  no  personal  grudge 
about  it." 


126  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"But  she  was  so  rude,"  Sidney  protested. 

"No  more  than  if  she  had  objected  to  the  size  of 
my  nose,  or  any  other  little  personal  detail.  The  only 
trouble  was,  she  wasn't  quite  sure  of  her  facts.  Really, 
Miss  Sidney,  I  never  was  a  brakeman  in  my  life." 

Under  his  jovial  exterior,  there  lurked  a  slight 
seriousness,  as  if  he  cared  for  the  girl's  opinion  and 
were  seeking  to  justify  himself  in  her  eyes.  Her 
answer  plainly  caused  him  a  little  shock. 

"What  if  you  were?"  she  asked  tranquilly. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Nothing;  except  that  it  would  have  showed  I 
wasn't  fit  for  something  better." 

"Or  that  nothing  better  offered,"  she  corrected 
him.  "The  main  thing  was  your  taking  whatever 
came.  That's  what  we  Americans  like,  you  know." 

Jack  coloured  at  her  outspoken  approval.  Then 
he  tried  to  pass  it  off  lightly. 

"And  what  we  English  do?"  he  queried.  "Still, 
it  doesn't  sound  nice  to  be  a  brakeman,  I  confess; 
I'd  much  rather  run  a  Pullman  sleeper.  I  suppose 
it's  all  a  matter  of  prejudice;  still,  I  feel  for  Phyllis." 

" Phyllis  ought  to  be— " 

"Abolished,"  Jack  said,  with  another  jolly  laugh. 
"However,  she  has  given  us  all  a  new  sensation.  I 
had  never  realized  till  then  that  Rob  Argyle  could 
lose  his  temper." 

Sidney  laughed  at  the  recollection. 

"It  was  justifiable,"  she  said;  "also  thorough- 
going. For  a  minute,  I  wondered  whether  there 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  7.V  NEW  YORK  127 

would  be  pieces  of  Phyllis  left,  large  enough  to  be 
worth  the  taking  home." 

"I  wondered,  too,"  Jack  assented. 

"However,  Phyllis  isn't  easily  pulverized,"  Sidney 
added,  after  an  instant  of  pause.  "I  did  my  best,  on 
the  way  home,  to  supplement  Rob's  work;  but  it 
didn't  seem  to  count  for  much." 

"She  probably  set  you  down  as  a  fellow  demo- 
crat," Jack  suggested  idly,  and  Sidney's  rising  colour 
gave  assent  to  his  words. 

"After  all,"  Jack  went  on  suddenly,  breaking  in 
upon  a  little  pause;  "do  you  know,  I  sometimes  think 
we  all  take  Phyllis  too  much  in  earnest." 

"How  can  we  help  it?"  Sidney  asked,  with  some 
abruptness. 

"She's  nothing  but  a  child,"  Jack  reminded  her. 

"Old  enough  to  know  better,"  Sidney  objected. 

"But  not  old  enough  to  do  better,"  Jack  reminded 
her  again. 

Sidney  considered  the  distinction  and  finally  ac- 
cepted it. 

"She  is  only  a  child,  I  suppose,"  she  admitted 
honestly  then.  "Still,  she  has  a  most  mature  sense 
of  the  wrong  thing  to  say.  Phyllis  doesn't  blunder. 
When  she  sins,  she  goes  to  be  bad." 

Jack  bent  forward  and  rested  his  elbows  on  his  knees. 

"In  other  words,  she  thought  I  was  getting  too 
cocky,  and  tried  to  put  me  in  my  proper  place?"  he 
queried,  and  once  more  Sidney's  rising  colour  gave 
assent  to  his  words. 


128  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

P)or  a  moment,  he  sat  silent,  his  chin  resting  in  his 
cupped  palms. 

"Well,"  he  said  philosophically  then.  "Perhaps 
I  am." 

"What  nonsense!"  Sidney  exclaimed,  with  hasty 
scorn. 

"No,"  Jack  went  on  reflectively.  "It  is  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world.  Still,  I  have  had  some 
temptation.  At  best,  to  us  Canadians,  the  way  peo- 
ple like  the  Argyles  live  is  like  a  bit  out  of  a  fairy 
tale;  as  a  rule,  we  don't  get  picked  up  and  stuck 
between  the  leaves.  And  Rob  and  Day  —  Miss  Sid- 
ney," he  faced  her  with  level,  steady  eyes;  "it  doesn't 
often  happen  to  a  chap  to  make  such  friends." 

"No,"  Sidney  assented  simply;  "nor  to  a  girl." 

But,  as  if  heedless  of  the  interruption,  Jack  went  on, 
his  thoughtful  eyes  bent  now  on  her  face,  now  on 
the  fire. 

"I  can't  seem  to  get  hold  of  it,  myself,  hold  of  it 
that  it  has  all  happened  to  me.  It's  like  one  of  the 
Sunday  stories  I  used  to  read,  when  I  was  a  little 
chap.  I  meant  to  be  decent  to  the  people  that 
I  took  up  and  down;  Rob  was  only  one  of  the  rest.  I 
liked  him  at  the  start;  but  I  didn't  think  much  about 
him  till  that  stormy  day  —  " 

Sidney  nodded. 

"Rob  told  me,"  she  said  briefly. 

"That  stormy  day  I  took  him  down.  I  liked  his 
nerve.  He  was  very  lame  then,  and  half-wild  about 
his  sister;  and  the  trip  was  the  worst  I  ever  knew. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  129 

He  took  it  like  a  hero,  never  grumbled  nor  asked 
fretty  questions,  took  it  all,  even  to  crossing  the  river 
when  the  captain  himself  said  afterwards  he  never 
expected  the  boat  to  come  through  the  ice,  right  side 
up.  No  wonder  I  liked  him  and  looked  out  for  him. 
Honestly,  Miss  Sidney,  I  had  no  idea  he  was  John 
Argyle's  son." 

Sidney  laughed  at  the  notion. 

"Who  said  you  had?"  she  demanded  scornfully. 

Jack's  glance  never  wavered. 

"It  got  about  in  the  Quebec  office,  started,  I  sup- 
pose, by  another  fellow  who  shared  the  run  with  me. 
The  honest  fact  is,  I  had  never  heard  of  John  Argyle 
at  the  time,  still  less  had  any  idea  he  was  down  there 
in  Quebec." 

Sidney,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  watched  him  with 
approving  eyes,  took  note  of  the  strong,  thin  hands, 
of  the  straight  brown  brows,  of  the  thin  lobes  of  the 
well-set  ears,  of  the  poise  of  the  well-set  head.  Then, 
when  she  feared  her  silence  had  lasted  far  too  long, 
she  spoke. 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Blanchard,  it  wouldn't  be  well 
for  any  one  to  talk  that  nonsense  to  Rob  Argyle." 

"You  think?"     He  looked  up  expectantly. 

"I  think  he  would  be  powdered  to  dust  finer  than 
that  Phyllis  was  reduced  to,"  she  replied  succinctly. 
"But  go  on." 

"That's  really  all,  as  far  as  my  part  of  it  goes," 
he  told  her.  "The  rest  is  all  the  sequel,  and  the 
Argyles  have  done  it.  It  was  the  business  chance 


130  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IX  XEW  YORK 

of  my  life  to  come  here.  I  couldn't  believe  in  my 
luck,  when  Mr.  Argyle  offered  me  the  place  in  his 
own  office.  Even  then,  I  had  no  notion  of  all  the 
rest;  that  Rob  would  be  my  friend,  that  Mrs.  Argyle 
would  ask  me  to  the  house  now  and  then." 

"And  now,"  Sydney  added;  "you  are  there  to 
stay." 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  with  a  gravity  that  filled  her 
with  surprise.  "I  feel  as  if  I  knew  what  home  were 
like  again.  It  is  the  final  miracle,  and  I  only  hope 
it  won't  make  me  lose  my  head."  Suddenly  he  sat 
up  straight,  shook  his  broad  shoulders  and  spoke 
with  his  old-time  alertness.  "I  beg  your  pardon, 
Miss  Sidney.  I  had  no  intention  of  drivelling  on 
like  this.  When  I  came  in,  it  was  with  the  sole  inten- 
tion of  demanding  mercy  for  your  sister.  Tell  me, 
did  you  take  it  out  of  her  very  badly?" 

Sidney  roused  herself  from  the  spell  of  his  frank 
brown  eyes. 

"Not  half  so  badly  as  she  deserved,"  she  answered, 
with  a  return  to  her  own  blithe  manner.  "In  fact," 
she  added,  laughing;  "I  rather  think  she  took  it  out 
of  me." 

Jack  eyed  her  keenly  for  a  moment.     Then,  — 

"I  suspect  she  generally  does,"  he  retorted.  "Phyl- 
lis doesn't  impress  me  as  being  a  nice  person  to  run 
up  against  in  the  course  of  an  argument." 

"She  generally  holds  her  own,"  Sidney  rejoined, 
with  a  certain  pride  in  the  mental  agility  of  her 
younger  sister.  "Her  remarks  don't  always  bear  on 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  131 

the  main  question;  but  they  usually  end  by  silencing 
me." 

"Spikes  your  guns?"  Jack  queried.  Then  once 
more  he  faced  Sidney  gravely.  "Honestly,  Miss 
Sidney,  you  don't  mind  about  this  afternoon?" 

"I  did  at  first,"  she  replied  as  honestly  as  he  could 
have  wished.  "An  apology  wouldn't  have  mended 
matters,  and  Phyllis  is  rather  large  to  shake.  That 
was  the  worst  of  it  all,  I  didn't  see  just  what  to  do. 
I  felt  I  must  take  vengeance  of  some  kind,  though, 
just  to  warn  her  that  she  wasn't  to  repeat  the  experi- 
ment." 

"What  did  you  do?"  Jack  asked,  curiosity  over- 
coming formal  courtesy. 

Two  deep  dimples  came  into  Sidney's  cheeks. 

"Phyllis  hates  to  sew,"  she  explained  demurely. 
"I  ripped  out  the  hem  of  her  best  frock." 

Jack  roared. 

"You're  a  born  strategist.  She'll  get  the  better 
of  you,  though,  by  wearing  it  that  way  and  telling 
people  you  did  it,"  he  predicted. 

"You  don't  know  Phyllis.  She'd  be  tidy,  if  she 
were  on  her  death  bed,"  Sidney  assured  him.  "She 
is  probably  sewing  it  up  again  now,  and  raging  while 
she  sews." 

"Then  it  behooves  me  to  stay  out  of  her  way  for 
the  present."  Jack  rose,  as  he  spoke. 

Sidney  beckoned  him  back  to  his  seat,  and  her 
gesture  was  imperative.  When  he  had  obeyed  it, 
she  spoke. 


132  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  am  the  sinner.  Sooner  or 
later,  I  shall  have  to  take  the  consequences.  Phyllis 
has  her  off  days,  every  now  and  then,  when  things  go 
wrong.  Then  she  takes  it  out  on  everybody  and 
everything  she  meets.  You  happened  to  get  in  her 
way;  and,  besides,  she  knows  Rob  likes  you  and  she 
counted  that  she  could  hit  two  people  at  once.  But 
really,  Mr.  Blanchard,"  she  faced  him  suddenly; 
"Phyllis  isn't  always  like  that;  her  cranky  ways 
aren't  all  there  are  of  her.  My  cousin  says  she  has 
some  splendid  traits,  if  we  can  only  make  the  best 
of  her." 

Jack  smiled  a  little.  Even  in  his  short  acquaintance 
with  Sidney  Stayre,  this  was  by  no  means  the  first 
time  he  had  heard  her  quote  the  final  authority  of 
her  cousin's  word. 

"Oh,  I'll  risk  Phil,"  he  assented.  "She  is  bound 
to  come  out  all  right.  As  I  said,  the  trouble  is  that 
she  is  so  large  that  we  forget  she  is  nothing  but  a 
child,  and  we  take  her  too  much  in  earnest.  I'll 
do  my  best  to  make  peace,  when  I  see  her." 

Sidney  shook  her  head. 

"Phyllis  is  meek  now.  I  think  you  won't  have 
to  do  much  making."  Then  she  dismissed  the  sub- 
ject utterly.  "Tell  me,  Mr.  Blanchard,  what  do 
you  hear  about  your  mother?" 

And  Jack  told,  freely  and  fully.  While  he  told,  he 
pulled  out  from  his  pocket  a  shabby  little  photo- 
graph, and  Sidney  sat  and  listened  long,  her  eyes 
upon  the  pictured  face.  Then  Wade  came  saunter- 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  133 

ing  in,  fresh  from  the  club  and  full  of  the  good  stories 
he  had  picked  up  there,  and  the  two  young  men 
drifted  off  into  random  talk  of  past  experiences, 
Jack's  in  the  field,  Wade's  in  his  law  office,  and  both, 
still  farther  back,  in  the  universities  they  loved  so 
well.  Now  and  then  Sidney  put  in  a  word;  but, 
for  the  most  part,  she  sat  back  and  listened.  Liking, 
as  she  did,  both  Jack  and  Wade,  she  delighted  that, 
in  this  first  long  talk  of  theirs,  they  should  hit  it  off 
so  well  together. 

Meanwhile,  in  her  room  up-stairs,  the  room  which 
she  shared  with  the  twins,  Phyllis  sat  rocking  to  and 
fro  and  sewing  with  impatient  jerkings  of  the  needle 
which  played  sad  havoc  with  her  thread.  In  the  large 
bed  at  the  farther  side  of  the  room,  the  twins  lay 
cuddled  together,  fast  asleep.  Phyllis  sat  beside 
her  own  bed  on  which  she  had  spread  out  a  great 
array  of  threads  and  pins  and  needles.  As  Sidney 
had  said,  the  girl  hated  sewing,  and  touched  a  needle 
only  under  compulsion.  When  she  could  tuck  her 
mending  into  the  baskets  of  her  mother  or  Sidney, 
she  did  so  without  conscience.  When  she  was  fairly 
cornered  into  it,  as  now,  however,  she  could  sew 
neatly,  albeit  with  a  singular  lack  of  deftness  which 
prolonged  her  task  to  twice  its  normal  limits. 

To-night,  she  admitted  to  herself,  the  task  was  for 
herself  and  for  herself  alone.  Sidney  would  be  the 
last  person  to  come  to  her  rescue,  and  Phyllis  shrewdly 
judged  it  best  to  make  no  appeal  to  her  mother  for 
aid.  An  appeal  would  show  the  need;  the  need 


134  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

could  only  be  accounted  for  by  explanation  of  its 
cause.  Phyllis  had  hidden  herself,  work  and  all, 
from  sight,  when  her  mother  had  entered  the  room 
to  make  sure  that  the  twins  were  asleep,  earlier  in 
the  evening.  The  chair  was  still  rocking,  as  Mrs. 
Stayre  crossed  the  floor,  and  the  corner  of  the  coun- 
terpane still  swaying  before  the  prostrate  form  of 
Phyllis;  but,  happily  for  Phyllis,  Mrs.  Stayre  was 
both  near-sighted  and  intent  upon  the  twins. 

"She  doesn't  catch  me,  if  I  can  help  myself," 
Phyllis  observed  grimly,  as  she  crawrled  out  from 
under  the  bed  and  dusted  off  her  skirt.  "Sidney 
is  a  beast;  but  there's  one  decent  thing  about  her, 
she  doesn't  tell  any  tales.  Next  time  I  sauce  her 
chums,  though,  I'll  make  sure  she  isn't  snooping 
around  just  outside  the  door.  Sidney  is  sharp;  but 
I'll  be  a  match  for  her  yet»  As  for  Rob  —  bah!" 
And  Phyllis  gave  a  disdainful  flirt  of  her  needle 
which  promptly  resulted  in  a  brace  of  knots. 

In  spite  of  herself,  Phyllis  had  been  forced  to 
admire  the  ingenuity  Sidney  had  shown  in  devising 
her  punishment.  All  the  way  home,  the  older  sister 
had  been  ominously  silent;  and  Phyllis  had  at  last 
resigned  herself  to  the  belief  that  an  appeal  to  her 
father  was  imminent.  In  a  family  like  the  Stayres, 
misdeeds  were  bound  to  be  frequent;  among  so 
many  children,  friction  was  bound  to  be.  No  two 
mortal  parents  could  cope  with  all  the  problems 
offered  by  seven  children,  and  it  had  come  to  be  an 
established  law  that  only  extreme  cases  should  be 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  135 

carried  up  to  this  final  supreme  court  of  parental 
justice.  Minor  cases  were  settled  by  the  children, 
promptly  and  out  of  hand  and,  for  the  most  part, 
with  a  surprising  degree  of  justice. 

Phyllis  was  quite  aware  that  she  richly  deserved 
to  be  sent  up  to  the  higher  court.  Rob  Argyle  had 
left  her  in  no  doubt  whatsoever  of  her  own  sins;  and 
Sidney's  absolute  silence  had  carried  home  Rob's 
more  vociferous  lesson.  Phyllis's  conscience,  too, 
was  uncomfortably  alert.  Heretofore,  she  had  rather 
liked  Jack  Blanchard.  To-day,  she  had  assaulted 
him,  chiefly  by  way  of  making  herself  unpleasant  to 
the  others,  and  her  assault  had  been  so  thorough- 
going as  to  have  left  no  doubt  of  her  intended  hos- 
tility. Curiously  enough,  the  fact  that  she  had 
wantonly  hurt  Jack  had  aroused  in  her  a  certain 
antagonism  towards  him,  an  antagonism  which  had 
been  multiplied  tenfold  by  the  jovial  laugh  with 
which  Jack  had  broken  the  silence  which  had  followed 
on  her  words.  It  was  as  if  she  had  expended  her 
whole  strength  to  bend  her  bow,  only  to  have  her 
arrow  go  astray,  leating  nothing  but  her  blistered 
thumb  to  mark  the  shot.  Phyllis  was  all  a  girl.  If 
Jack  had  winced,  she  would  have  been  the  first  to 
feel  his  pain.  Instead,  he  had  laughed,  and  she 
had  resented  it  accordingly. 

Her  needle  slipped  to  the  floor  and  rolled  under 
the  bed.  Phyllis  stooped  to  pick  it  up  and,  stoop- 
ing, became  suddenly  aware  that  the  room  was  very 
hot.  Impatiently  she  brushed  a  loose  lock  of  hair 


136  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IX  XEW  YORK 

from  her  forehead,  rose  and  opened  the  door  into 
the  hall.  As  she  returned  to  her  seat,  she  heard, 
corning  up  from  below,  the  murmur  of  voices,  and  then 
Sidney's  laugh. 

"Mean  old  thing!"  she  said  vindictively,  as  she 
rubbed  her  sticky,  warm  hands  upon  her  gown.  "All 
she  has  to  do  is  to  sit  there  and  have  a  good  time, 
and  not  think  a  thing  about  me.  Oh — h — h,  dear ! 
Oh,  that  does  prick  so,  and  I  am  so  warm!  It's 
cruel,  and  Sidney  is  so  horrid."  She  sucked  her 
thumb  tenderly,  then  took  it  out  of  her  mouth  and 
squeezed  it,  in  the  hope  that  the  injury  was  bad 
enough  to  arouse  the  pity  of  her  hard-hearted  sister. 
"I  never  shall  get  this  done,  never!  She  ought  to 
help  me,  and  not  sit  there,  laughing  like  a  ninny.  I 
wonder  who  is  down  there  with  her." 

Leaving  her  skirt  on  the  bed,  Phyllis  rose,  tiptoed 
across  the  room  and  listened  at  the  door.  She  came 
back  again,  frowning,  and  caught  up  her  skirt  with  a 
jerk  which  promptly  unthreaded  her  needle  once  more. 

"It's  that  Blanchard  brakeman!"  she  said  to  her- 
self morosely.  "What  do  you  suppose  he  is  doing 
here?  Sidney  ought  to  pick  out  her  friends  better 
than  that.  Most  likely  he's  come  to  talk  me  over. 
He's  got  me  into  a  nice  scrape,  as  it  is.  I'd  like  to 
get  even  with  him." 

For  a  few  moments  more,  she  sewed  industriously, 
while  she  rocked  with  an  increasing  fervour  which  at 
last  lifted  her  feet  completely  off  the  floor  at  every 
backward  dip.  Her  thread  knotted  badly,  and  her 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  J.V  NEW  YORK  137 

brows  knotted  still  worse;  her  underlip  was  caught 
fast  between  her  strong,  white  teeth.  Suddenly  and 
with  a  vicious  click,  she  brought  both  heels  down 
upon  the  floor,  nodded  sharply  and,  letting  fall  her 
work,  stroked  back  her  hair  once,  twice,  and  yet  again. 

"I'll  do  it,"  she  said  shortly.  "I  detest  him,  and 
then  it's  only  fair." 

Arming  herself  with  a  sharp-pointed  pair  of  shears, 
she  kicked  off  her  shoes,  thrust  her  feet  into  the  moc- 
casins which  Sidney  had  brought  home  to  her  from 
Canada,  and  crept  out  into  the  hall.  There,  hanging 
over  the  banisters,  she  listened  intently.  After  the 
fashion  of  the  older  sort  of  city  houses,  the  stairs 
were  in  one  long,  straight  flight  which  wellnigh 
pierced  the  building  from  front  to  rear.  Leaning 
over  the  rail  at  the  top  of  the  flight,  Phyllis  was  just 
above  the  half-open  door  of  the  library  whence  came 
the  busy  murmur  of  voices.  The  foot  of  the  stairs 
was  close  to  the  front  entrance,  where  the  old  mahog- 
any hat-rack  stood  just  beyond  the  parlour  door  and 
two  rooms  away  from  the  cozy  library  in  the  rear. 

For  a  moment,  Phyllis  bent  over  the  rail  and  lis- 
tened, not  from  any  thought  of  eavesdropping,  but 
merely  to  assure  herself  where  lay  the  strategic 
points  of  her  campaign.  As  she  stood  there,  Wade's 
voice  came  clearly  to  her,  and  Sidney's,  and  Jack 
Blanchard's  laugh.  Then  she  heard  her  own  name 
and  another  laugh.  She  shut  her  teeth  askew, 
straightened  up  and  clashed  her  scissors  noiselessly 
but  with  vindictive  fervour.  Then,  stealing  away  on 


138  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

her  moccasined  toes,  she  crept  softly,  slowly  down 
the  stairs,  holding  her  breath  while  she  came  oppo- 
site the  half-opened  library  door,  and  then  breathing 
more  freely,  as  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 
A  moment  later,  she  was  rummaging  among  the  coats 
that  filled  the  broad  old  rack. 

Inside  the  room,  Wade  Winthrop  had  raised  his 
hand  in  warning. 

"Bungay,"  he  whispered,  and  then,  without  a  pause, 
he  went  on  with  his  uncompleted  sentence. 

Sidney  laughed  and  nodded.  She  knew  Bungay's 
favourite  trick  of  stealing  down  upon  them,  tousled 
and  pajama-ed,  whenever  he  chanced  to  wake  up  and 
find  them  talking.  More  than  once,  he  had  appeared 
to  them  in  the  parlour,  to  the  astoundment  of  more 
formal  guests;  but  now  the  fiat  had  gone  forth  that 
Bungay,  if  he  desired  to  escape  punishment,  must 
confine  his  appearings  to  such  times  as  they  were 
settled  hi  the  informal  surroundings  of  the  library. 
Doubtless,  such  an  appearing  was  now  imminent. 
For  a  moment,  she  faltered.  Then  she  reflected  that, 
months  before,  Jack  had  made  acquaintance  with 
Bungay's  brief  pajamas,  and  she  held  her  peace. 
Wade,  in  the  meantime,  while  talking  steadily,  had 
scribbled  a  note  on  the  back  of  an  envelope  and 
tossed  it  across  to  Jack. 

Jack  read  it,  nodded,  wrote  a  few  words  and  tossed 
it  back,  — 

"All  right.  Let's  make  a  sally  and  catch  the  little 
chap,  before  he  knows  it." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  139 

In  his  turn,  Wade  nodded,  then  passed  the  note  to 
Sidney.  An  instant  later,  all  the  three,  laughing 
silently,  had  risen  and  tiptoed  to  the  door.  There 
they  paused  for  a  moment.  Then,  giggling  like  a 
boy,  Jack  raised  his  hand. 

"Villain,  surrender !".  he  called  in  stentorian  tones, 
and,  followed  by  the  other  two,  he  dashed  out  towards 
the  foot  of  the  staircase. 

There  was  a  muffled  word  of  exclamation,  a  little 
stir  among  the  hanging  coats.  With  a  slow  stateli- 
ness,  a  feigned  dignity  intended  for  Bungay's  eye 
alone,  Wade  and  Jack  lifted  fold  after  fold  of  the 
coats  hanging  above  the  human  form  which  by  rights 
ought  to  top  the  two  sturdy  feet  that  were  visible 
beneath  the  folds.  The  last  fold  yielded  to  Jack's 
touch,  and  then,  instead  of  Bungay's  chubby,  laugh- 
ing countenance,  Jack  Blanchard  found  himself  star- 
ing into  the  crimson  face  of  Phyllis  Stayre;  and  in 
the  hand  of  Phyllis  Stayre  there  came  the  gleam  of 
the  tell-tale  pair  of  scissors  whose  long,  sharp  points 
were  still  caught  in  the  half-ripped  lining  of  his 
sleeve. 

"Phyllis!" 

It  was  not  often  that  Sidney's  voice  took  on  that 
tone.  There  was  an  instant's  pause  while  Phyllis, 
angry  and  shamefaced  and  wholly  at  a  loss  for  words, 
stood  at  bay.  Then,  turning  with  a  half-smothered 
sob,  she  broke  away  and  went  speeding  up  the  stairs. 

The  door  of  her  room  banged  together  with  a  force 
which  waked  the  slumbering  twins;  but,  just  before 


140  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

it  closed,  Phyllis  heard  come  plainly  up  the  stairs 
behind  her  Jack  Blanchard's  jolly  laugh.  For  the 
second  time  that  day,  that  .laugh  had  been  turned 
against  her.  And  Phyllis,  sobbing  furiously  and  face 
down  upon  her  bed,  made  up  her  girlish  mind  that 
henceforth  and  forever  she  would  hate  Jack  Blanch- 
ard  as  only  he  deserved. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  141 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

"TJOB?" 

-"-^     Rob  Argyle  glanced  up  from  the  evening 
paper  in  his  hand. 

"Dad?" 

"The  game  comes  off,  next  Saturday." 

Rob  nodded. 

"I  inf erred  it  from  the  context." 

"Why  didn't  you  mention  it,  then?" 

"Turned  coy,  Dad,  and  waited  for  you.  I  knew 
you'd  get  around  to  it,  some  day.  Besides,  I  wasn't 
sure  I'd  get  through  mumping  in  time." 

His  father  laughed. 

"It  would  have  been  ignominious;  wouldn't  it?" 
he  asked.  "Imagine  Exeter's  champion  appearing  at 
a  Yale-Princeton  game,  all  swollen  up  with  mumps." 

"  Day  would  have  had  the  worst  of  it,  Dad,  if  we'd 
had  to  stay  at  home  together,"  Rob  suggested  cheer- 
ily. "As  it  is,  we're  both  of  us  presentable  again." 

"To  my  relief,"  his  father  assented.  "You  weren't 
a  pretty  trio.  Well,  what  do  you  propose  to  do 
about  it?" 

"Smile  at  our  looking-glasses,  and  thank  the  fates 
the  party's  over,"  Rob  made  prompt  response.  "Even 
Day  must  have  had  her  fill  by  now." 


142  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Poor  child,  yes.  You  brought  disaster  over  a 
sorrowing  community,  Rob.  But  what  do  you  pro- 
pose to  do  about  the  game?" 

"Go." 

" Exactly.    And  then?" 

"Come  home,  of  course,  shrieking  for  the  winning 
side.  As  long  as  Harvard  doesn't  play,  I  don't  care  a 
rap  who  gets  the  luck.  Shall  you  take  up  your  car?" 

"It  is  the  easiest  way.  Then  we  can  lunch  on 
board,  and  be  free  to  give  our  whole  time  and  mind 
to  getting  to  the  field." 

"Who  is  going?"  Rob  queried  idly,  as  he  dropped 
his  paper  and  bent  forward  to  assault  the  forestick. 

"I  can  look  out  for  ten,"  his  father  replied,  watch- 
ing with  absent  eye  his  son's  yellow  head  and  well-set 
shoulders.  "Your  mother  has  asked  the  Brownes; 
but  only  Amy  and  her  mother  can  go.  Then  I 
thought  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  take  Jack  along." 

Rob  nodded  at  the  forestick. 

"Good  scheme,  Dad!  It's  time  he  saw  something 
of  the  kind.  He  is  used  to  the  sort  of  game  that 
slops  all  over  the  field.  Those  Canadian  fellows  have 
no  notion  of  a  team.  By  the  way,  where  is  he  now?" 

"  Where's  who?  "  Day  inquired,  as  she  appeared  upon 
the  scene  and  plumped  herself  down  on  Rob's  knee. 

"Jack,  you  elephant.  I  say,  Day,  move  over  to 
the  other  knee.  You  weigh  more  than  you  used  to, 
and  this  weather  is  making  me  gouty." 

"Rob,"  his  father  spoke  with  sudden  seriousness; 
"have  you  strained  your  leg  again?" 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  143 

With  perfect  tranquillity,  Rob  caught  his  sister  as 
she  essayed  to  rise,  pulled  her  down  upon  the  other 
knee  and  held  her  fast. 

"Nothing  to  mention,  Dad,"  he  answered  then. 
"James  has  been  shampooing  the  stairs,  to-day,  and 
I  slipped  a  little,  when  I  came  down  to  dinner.  I'll 
be  all  right  in  the  morning,  so  don't  beetle  your  brows 
like  that.  Sit  still,  Aurora." 

She  laughed  up  into  his  face. 

"I  won't,  if  you  call  me  that,"  she  told  him. 

"It's  your  name,"  he  reminded  her.  "You  got  it 
in  baptism,  with  Aunt  Aurora's  tin  teapot  thrown  in. 
But  don't  wriggle  like  that,  you  know;  it  makes  me 
nervous." 

"Something  else  makes  me  nervous,  Rob." 

"What's  that?" 

"You.  I  hate  your  having  these  strains;  they 
always  scare  me." 

"But  this  is  nothing,  really,"  he  assured  her. 

Twisting  about  on  his  knee,  she  surveyed  him 
anxiously. 

"Truly,  truly?"  she  asked.  "I  should  die,  if  you 
were  put  to  bed  again." 

His  eyes  denied  the  laugh  on  his  lips.     However,  — 

"We  had  some  good  times,  Day,"  he  reminded  her. 

"Better  ones  now,"  she  said  contentedly.  "But 
do  be  careful,  Rob." 

"All  right,"  Rob  answered,  with  unexpected  docil- 
ity. "But  do  you  happen  to  know  where  Jack  is?" 

Day  shook  her  head. 


144  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IX  NEW  YORK 

"And  I'm  afraid  I  don't  much  care,"  she  added 
luxuriously. 

"Why,  Day!" 

"I  know;  it  is  very  unregenerate  of  me.  I  think 
Jack  is  an  adorable  being  and  I  truly  do  like  to  have 
him  about.  Still,  it  is  fun  to  have  you  to  myself. 
I  haven't  seen  him  since  dinner,  though.  I  sup- 
posed you  had  him  at  work,  Daddy?"  Her  tone 
was  interrogative. 

"No;  I  saw  him  starting  out  somewhere,  just  after 
dinner,"  her  father  answered. 

"Queer!  It's  not  the  night  for  any  of  his  lessons," 
Day  commented  carelessly.  "I  wonder  where  he 
is;  he  generally  tells  us,  when  he's  going  out." 

"I  thought  he  seemed  worried  at  the  table,"  Mr. 
Argyle  suggested. 

Rob  and  Day  exchanged  glances.  Sidney  had  no 
sooner  gone  away,  that  afternoon,  taking  Phyllis 
with  her,  than  the  brother  and  sister  had  decided 
that  it  would  be  best  for  all  concerned,  for  Jack  as 
well  as  Phyllis,  that  nothing  should  be  said  to  their 
elders  about  Phyllis's  sudden  attack. 

"But  people  are  so  horrid,"  Day  said  forlornly, 
after  Jack  had  gone  to  his  room.  "First  they  say 
things  without  thinking,  and,  the  next  thing,  they 
believe  them.  Amy  Browne  called  Jack  a  brake- 
man  first,  and  now  it's  that  little  wretch  of  a  Phyllis 
Stayre.  For  my  part,  I  don't  care  if  he  was  news- 
boy; he's  Jack  Blanchard,  all  the  same,  and  we  know 
what  he  is.  Still,  I  hate  to  have  such  fables  get 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  LV  NEW  YORK  145 

about;  they  make  it  hard  for  Jack.  Now  he's 
here  in  the  house,  he  is  bound  to  see  more  people." 

"Also  they're  bound  to  see  him,"  Rob  reminded 
her. 

"Only  they  don't  half  look,  when  they  have  a 
notion  like  that  in  their  heads,"  Day  said  shrewdly. 
"They're  introduced,  and  nod,  and  go  right  on. 
They  can't  tell  what  he's  like,  that  way." 

And  the  discussion  which  had  followed,  had  lasted 
so  long  that  Rob  had  made  ready  for  dinner  in  a 
mad  haste  which  had  resulted  in  his  slip  upon  the 
stairs.  Since  then,  he  had  been  gritting  his  teeth 
together  to  hide  the  ache  in  his  leg.  Rob  Argyle 
possessed  his  own  share  of  pluck;  but  he  did  not 
take  kindly  to  invalid  ways.  Just  escaped  from 
the  ignominious  woes  of  mumps,  he  was  not  minded 
to  be  laid  on  the  shelf  again  to  nurse  a  strain.  For 
the  next  few  days,  he  would  walk  but  little  and  that 
little  with  exceeding  circumspection.  In  that  way, 
he  hoped  to  avoid  any  discovery  of  his  increased 
limp.  If  worse  came  to  worst,  he  would  take  Day 
into  his  confidence,  and  together  they  would  plot 
how  he  could  escape  parental  vigilance.  Day  never 
fussed;  she  merely  kept  still  and  administered  her 
coddlings  when  no  one  else  "was  by. 

Now,  however,  it  seemed  to  Rob  that  the  talk  was 
skirting  the  edge  of  danger.  Deftly  he  changed  the 
subject  away  from  strains  and  from  Phyllis. 

"Dad  has  just  been  talking  about  the  game,  Day," 
he  observed. 


146  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IX  XEW  YORK 

"Really  and  truly!    Are  we  going?" 

Rob  took  advantage  of  her  enthusiasm  to  slide 
to  one  edge  of  his  chair,  slide  her  down  beside  him 
and  straighten  out  his  aching  leg. 

"So  he  says." 

Day  turned  to  her  father. 

"How?" 

"I  shall  take  up  the  car." 

"Good!    And  who  in  it?" 

"Mrs.  Browne  and  Amy,  four  of  us,  and  Jack." 

"And  you  counted  for  ten,  Dad,"  Rob  reminded 
him.  "You  have  seven  there.  Who  then?" 

"Anybody  you  say  for  one,  or  even  two.  I  thought 
I  would  like  to  keep  a  place  for  Mr.  Browne,  in 
case  he  turned  up  at  the  last  minute.  You'll  have 
Jack  to  play  with,  Rob,  and  Day  has  Amy.  You'll 
have  to  decide  which  of  you  will  choose  the  extra 
person." 

Rob  nestled  into  the  corner  of  his  chair  and 
stretched  his  long  legs  fireward. 

"Not  decide  at  all.    We'd  both  like  Sidney." 

"May  we,  Daddy?"  Day  added. 

"  Of  course.  I  thought  likely  you  would  want  her. 
And  why  not  ask  that  extraordinary  young  sister 
of  hers,  while  you  are  about  it?" 

"Phil!" 

"Phyllis  Stayre!" 

The  two  exclamations,  emphatic  and  horrified, 
came  simultaneously  from  the  two  corners  of  the 
great  chair.  Mr.  Argyle  laughed. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  147 

"Why  not?" 

"Daddy!"  Day's  tone  was  full  of  remonstrance. 
"Phil  is  —  insupportable." 

"What's  the  matter  with  her?"  Mr.  Argyle  asked, 
with  a  tranquillity  born  of  his  utter  ignorance  of 
Phyllis's  mental  processes. 

"Queer,  and  cranky,  and  dowdy." 

"And  porcupiggy,"  Rob  supplemented.  "She's 
always  in  a  row,  Dad.  When  she  can't  find  anybody 
else  to  fight  with,  she  gets  up  a  shindy  with  herself, 
and  storms  about  like  a  crazy  hen.  Truly,  we  don't 
want  Phil." 

"But  I'll  see  to  the  child,"  Mr.  Argyle  said  be- 
nevolently. "If  she  is  as  bad  as  you  say,  she  prob- 
ably doesn't  get  many  invitations.  I'd  like  her  to  have 
this  one  good  time,  and  besides,  for  Sidney's  sake, 
it  would  be  well  to  ask  her." 

Rob  shook  his  yellow  head. 

"That's  where  you  missed  it,  Dad,"  he  retorted 
grimly.  "For  Sidney's  sake,  it  would  be  mighty 
well  to  leave  Phil  at  home." 

"She  won't  come,  if  we  do  ask  her,"  Day  said 
hopefully. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,"  Day  felt  that  the  new  emergency  de- 
manded that  she  reveal  half  the  secret  of  the  after- 
noon's fray;  "  because  she  had  a  fuss  here,  to-day,  and 
stamped  out  of  the  house  on  her  heels." 

"Sorry,"  Mr.  Argyle  made  brief  comment.  "It's 
not  good  manners  to  have  your  friends  have  fusses 


148          "    DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

in  your  own  house.  No  matter,  though;  I'll  ask 
the  child,  myself." 

Early  the  next  morning,  Sidney,  with  Bungay  at 
her  heels,  came  down  to  the  dining-room  to  give  her 
customary  glance  about  the  table.  In  a  family  so 
large  as  theirs,  it  was  manifestly  impossible  for  one 
servant  to  do  all  things  well,  and  Mary's  strength 
and  ability  both  were  finite.  Accordingly,  certain 
duties  overflowed  upon  the  older  girls,  and  to  Phyllis's 
share  fell  the  setting  of  the  table.  Phyllis  was 
strictly  utilitarian.  Granted  that  a  knife  would  cut, 
she  cared  nothing  for  its  shape  and  material.  Granted 
that  a  fork  would  pick  things  up,  she  cared  nothing 
for  its  size.  One  knife  and  fork,  she  averred,  were 
enough  for  any  one  mortal  at  any  one  meal.  Fur- 
thermore, she  saw  no  need  of  uniformity  in  choosing 
that  one,  while  the  smaller  items  of  pepper,  salt 
and  napkins  strayed  about  the  cloth,  as  fancy  bade 
or  the  demands  of  haste  made  needful.  As  result, 
Sidney  had  found  it  well  to  inspect  the  table  before 
each  meal,  and,  with  a  deft  touch  here  and  there, 
to  bring  order  out  of  seeming  chaos. 

On  this  particular  Sunday  morning,  the  chaos 
was  worse  than  ever.  For  a  few  moments,  Sidney 
toiled  industriously  to  make  good  the  gaps  in  Phyllis's 
preparations.  Then,  going  to  the  hall,  she  picked 
up  the  little  heap  of  morning  mail  and,  sorting  it 
in  her  hands,  she  moved  back  into  the  dining-room. 
One  letter  for  Phyllis  caught  her  eye  by  reason  of 
its  bold  handwriting,  and  she  tossed  it  down  on  her 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  149 

sister's  napkin.  Then  she  opened  her  own  one 
letter,  addressed  in  the  dashing  hand  she  had  long 
since  learned  to  know  as  Rob  Argyle's.  She  looked 
up  delightedly,  as  Wade  entered  the  room. 

"Wade,  it's  too  joyous!"  she  exclaimed.  "Mr. 
Argyle  is  taking  his  private  car  up  to  the  game, 
and  Rob  and  Day  have  asked  me  to  go  with  them." 

The  younger  boys  cast  themselves  upon  her  in  a 
clamour  of  questionings,  and,  for  a  few  minutes,  all 
the  tongues  but  one  wagged  busily. 

"Those  Brownes  are  going.  You  remember  Amy, 
Wade?"  Sidney  said,  with  a  little  grimace  of  disgust. 
"And  Rob  says  Jack  will  go,  too.  Isn't  it  lovely? 
Don't  you  envy  me?"  Then  she  turned  to  Phyllis, 
who  was  eating  oatmeal  with  an  air  of  stolid  uncon- 
cern. "Did  you  find  your  letter,  Phil?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"What  was  it?" 

In  leisurely  fashion,  Phyllis  scraped  up  the  cream 
in  the  bottom  of  her  dish. 

"It  was  a  letter  to  me,"  she  said  then. 

"I  saw  the  address,"  Sidney  reminded  her.  "Who 
wrote  it?" 

"A  friend  of  mine."  Phyllis's  jaw  shut  with  a 
snap. 

Wade  laughed. 

"I  hope  it  was  good  news,  Phil,"  he  remarked,  as 
he  chipped  the  end  of  his  egg. 

"Good  enough,  I  suppose.  No,  thank  you.  I 
don't  care  for  any  more.  May  I  be  excused?" 


150  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

And  Phyllis,  with  the  same  cloudy  brow  she  had 
worn  since  the  previous  afternoon,  slipped  sideways 
out  of  her  chair  and  left  the  room. 

And  Wade's  eyes,  across  the  table,  met  those  of 
Sidney  with  a  smile.  Like  Rob  and  Day,  both 
Sidney  and  Wade  had  resolved  to  say  nothing  to 
their  elders  about  Phyllis's  latest  freak. 

The  next  Saturday  was  a  day  of  thousands,  warm 
and  bright  and  soft  with  the  golden  and  purple  haze 
of  late  November.  To  Sidney  Stayre,  riding  east- 
ward along  the  edge  of  the  Sound,  it  seemed  all  like 
a  bit  out  of  some  fairy  tale:  the  luxurious  private 
car,  the  uniformed  servants,  the  gay  talk  and  the 
pretty  clothes.  Amy  and  Day  were  gossiping  in 
one  corner;  Rob  had  departed  for  a  leisurely  tour 
of  the  train,  finding  friends  at  every  turn,  and  Sidney 
for  the  moment  sat  alone,  looking  out  across  the 
stretches  of  golden  marshland.  The  girl  was  full  of 
dreamy  content.  Her  welcome  had  been  exuberant. 
Rob  himself  had  come  hi  the  cab  which  had  called 
for  her,  and  Day  had  greeted  her  with  open  arms, 
while  Amy  Browne,  already  on  the  step  of  the  car, 
had  beamed  upon  her  cordially.  An  added  source 
of  content  lay  in  her  own  new  winter  gown  of  dark 
green  cloth  which,  simple  as  it  was,  yet  had  won 
glances  of  approval  from  them  all. 

Sidney,  although  temporarily  deserted,  had  no 
sense  of  being  left  out  in  the  cold.  Instead  of  that, 
she  was  not  sorry  to  have  a  moment  to  herself  to 
think  over  the  details  of  her  departure:  her  father's 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  151 

pleasure  in  her  going,  her  mother's  insistent  loan  of 
her  best  handkerchief,  Bungay's  farewell  hug,  and 
Wade's  bright  face  as  he  had  put  her  into  the  cab. 
Then,  as  the  cab  had  rolled  away,  one  black  spot 
came  across  the  sunshine.  Sidney  had  raised  her 
eyes  to  the  house  to  see  Phyllis,  who  had  been 
invisible  at  breakfast,  peering  out  from  an  upper 
window  with  gloomy  face  and  red-rimmed  eyes. 
Sidney  wondered  uneasily  what  could  have  gone 
wrong  with  the  girl,  so  early  in  the  morning.  Then 
she  had  forgotten  Phyllis  in  Rob's  eager  greeting. 

"Oh,  I  say,"  Rob  said,  as  the  cab  stopped  at  the 
curb  outside  the  station;  "my  leg's  gone  up  again; 
but  don't  make  any  comments,  please.  I'm  hoping 
that  the  heads  of  the  house  won't  notice  it.  No," 
he  added,  in  answer  to  her  questioning  look;  "it's 
nothing.  It  won't  last.  I  only  don't  want  to  get 
laid  up  again."  And  he  stiffened  himself  for  the  long 
walk  out  the  platform. 

Sidney  was  thinking  of  it  now,  as  she  sat  staring 
out  across  the  level  marshland,  contrasting  Rob's 
bright,  buoyant  pluck  with  Phyllis's  gloom.  She 
roused  herself,  however,  as  Jack  came  sauntering 
down  the  car  and  halted  at  her  side. 

"Seems  like  old  times,  to  be  riding  off  like  this," 
he  observed  gayly;  "only  I  never  had  such  quarters 
then.  Is  Rob  coming  back?" 

"Sit  down,"  she  bade  him.  "Tell  me,  did  my 
mending  hold  together?" 

Laughing,  he  nodded. 


152  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Like  adamant.     How  is  my  young  friend?" 

"In  the  dumps." 

Jack  raised  his  brows. 

"Again?" 

"Still,  you'd  better  say,"  Sidney  corrected.  "She 
has  been  in  mental  dogdays  for  a  week." 

"What  now?" 

All  of  a  sudden  Sidney's  mirth  left  her,  and  she 
gave  a  tired  sigh. 

"I  wish  I  knew,"  she  said. 

Later,  that  day,  she  was  destined  to  find  out  the 
cause,  in  part  at  least,  of  Phyllis's  morning  gloom. 
One  by  one,  and  each  more  golden  than  the  last,  the 
hours  had  slipped  away,  bearing  with  them  in  swift 
procession  the  merry  journey,  the  luncheon,  the  wild 
scramble  to  get  a  carriage  for  the  field,  a  scramble 
when  Sidney,  professing  to  twist  her  ankle,  had 
demanded  the  support  of  Rob's  arm  to  the  curb, 
the  wilder  excitement  of  the  close-fought  game. 
It  was  not  until  they  were  once  more  seated  in  the 
Argyle  car  that  Sidney  had  more  than  an  occasional 
word  with  her  host.  Then  his  word  took  her  by 
surprise. 

"Remember,"  he  said,  as  he  rose  to  give  place  to 
his  son  who  was  obviously  waiting  to  move  in;  "re- 
member to  tell  your  sister  how  sorry  we  were  not  to 
have  her  with  us." 

Sidney  looked  slightly  mystified.  It  was  not  like 
Mr.  Argyle,  as  she  had  known  him,  to  make  such 
speeches  as  this  for  mere  effect. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  153 

"Phyllis  would  have  loved  to  come,"  she  said 
guardedly. 

"Then  why  didn't  she?" 

Sidney  coloured  hotly.  Phyllis  was  notoriously 
eccentric.  Still,  she  was  a  Stayre,  and  the  Stayres, 
as  a  rule,  did  not  annex  themselves,  unasked,  to 
expeditions  such  as  this. 

"Why,  because  — "she  faltered. 

Mr.  Argyle  dropped  back  again  into  his  seat,  to 
Rob's  no  small  disgust. 

"Because  what?"  he  queried  kindly,  at  a  loss  to 
explain  Sidney's  manifest  embarrassment. 

The  embarrassment  deepened. 

"Because  she  wasn't  invited,"  Sidney  blurted  out, 
in  desperation  at  being  so  completely  cornered. 

It  was  Mr.  Argyle's  turn  to  look  mystified. 

"But  I  invited  her,  myself,"  he  said. 

"Really?" 

"Didn't  she  tell  you?" 

"No;  nor  anybody  else,"  Sidney  answered  shortly, 
in  a  sudden  wave  of  acute  disgust.  Then  she 
straightened  in  her  chair.  "Was  it  a  great  square 
letter  that  came  to  her,  Sunday  morning?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"Let  me  see.    Yes." 

Sidney  sank  back  again  in  her  chair. 

"How  exactly  like  Phyllis!"  she  said. 

And,  meanwhile,  Wade  Winthrop  was  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  Phyllis's  bed,  with  one  strong,  slim  hand 
upon  her  shaking  shoulders. 


154  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  XEW  YORK 

All  the  night  before,  and  all  that  day,  Wade  had 
suspected  something  was  amiss  with  his  young  cousin. 
For  the  past  twenty-four  hours,  Phyllis  had  kept  her- 
self out  of  the  way  as  much  as  possible.  When  she 
had  been  visible,  she  had  alternately  gloomed  and 
glowered.  And  Wade,  looking  on  and  viewing  the 
girl  in  the  light  of  his  widening  experience  of  human 
life,  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  something  was 
seriously  wrong.  As  a  rule,  a  girl  of  fourteen  only 
glowered  out  upon  the  world  in  seasons  of  strife.  To 
Wade's  mind,  it  mattered  nothing  whether  the  strife 
were  with  herself  or  with  her  fellow  beings.  Constant 
war  was  bad  for  a  fourteen-year-old  girl;  it  should  be 
ended  at  any  cost.  During  the  past  two  or  three 
months,  Wade  had  eyed  his  young  cousin  keenly. 
Liking  her  not  at  all,  he  yet  had  seen,  beneath  her 
thorns,  possible  lines  of  loveliness  which  as  yet  were 
all  undeveloped.  His  first  temptation  had  been  to 
let  her  go  her  way,  to  leave  her  development  to  other 
hands  than  his.  Then,  one  day,  he  had  caught  her 
in  tears,  and  Wade  was  tender-hearted.  From  that 
hour  on,  he  had  made  systematic  effort  to  find  a  side 
of  Phyllis  on  which,  not  yet  overgrown  with  thorns, 
she  could  be  safely  handled.  Once,  and  yet  again, 
and  still  again,  he  had  thought  to  discover  that  side. 
He  had  withdrawn  from  that  contact,  tingling  and  sore. 

At  noon,  that  day,  Phyllis  had  worn  the  chastened 
brow  of  a  mediseval  saint,  her  nose  had  been  pink,  her 
voice  was  in  a  minor  key,  husky  and  plaintive.  True 
to  her  customary  method,  she  had  found  vent  for  her 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  J.V  NEW  YORK  155 

sorrows  by  reducing  the  twins  to  a  condition  of  simi- 
lar chastening,  by  reason  of  her  criticism  upon  their 
habits.  They  had  left  the  table,  arm  in  arm,  and 
sniffling  grievously  upon  their  unoccupied  sleeves; 
and  Phyllis  had  turned  her  attention  to  Bungay  whose 
griefs  were  never  known  to  express  themselves  in  any- 
thing so  moderate  as  a  sniffle.  Wade  had  smiled 
inscrutably  to  himself,  raised  his  brows  and  excused 
himself  at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  On  his  way 
down  town,  once  again  he  had  seriously  weighed  the 
relative  desirability  of  Sidney's  society  and  exemp- 
tion from  Sidney's  younger  sister. 

Nevertheless,  he  came  up  early  from  the  office, 
that  afternoon;  and,  at  a  corner  staii,  he  halted  for 
a  posy  of  late  chrysanthemums.  In  spite  of  it  all,  he 
was  sorry  for  Phyllis.  Because  her  bad  times  were  of 
her  own  making,  they  were  none  the  less  bad,  for  all 
that.  His  key  clicked  sharply  in  the  door.  Then, — 

"Oh,  Phil!"  he  called. 

"Hullo!"  Bungay  observed,  from  his  seat  astride 
of  the  newel  post. 

"Hullo,  Bungay!     Have  you  seen  Phil?" 

"Id'  know.  The  man  came  for  the  gas,"  Bungay 
assured  him  discursively. 

"  All  right.     But  has  Phyllis  gone  out?  " 

Bungay  bounced  rapturously  up  and  down  on  his 
improvised  steed. 

"Gee!  Haw!  Go  'long!"  he  adjured  it.  "'Trot, 
trot  to  — '  No.  There's  her  hat." 

"Where  is  she,  then?" 


156  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Bungay  let  go  his  shoestring  bridle  long  enough  to 
point  vaguely  towards  the  ceiling. 

"In  her  room?    Go  call  her." 

"Don't  dass,"  Bungay  made  laconic  answer. 

"Why  not?" 

"  She'll  hit  me."  Bungay  suddenly  recalled  his  next- 
day  Bible  lesson  which  had  been  driven  into  him,  that 
noon.  "She'll  smite  me,  hip  and  thigh.  Go  'lang!" 

And  Wade  took  to  himself  the  instructions  levelled 
at  the  wooden  steed,  and  mounted  up  the  stairs. 

"Oh,  Phil!"  he  said  again,  outside  the  door. 

There  was  no  response,  and  he  repeated  his  call. 
This  time,  he  heard  a  muffled  reply. 

"G'  way,"  it  sounded  like. 

"But  it's  I,  Wade." 

"Don't  care." 

"I've  brought  you  some  flowers." 

"Give  'em  to  Sidney,  then."  The  words  were  not 
encouraging;  but  the  tone  was  a  shade  less  gruff. 

"But  I  bougnt  them  for  you." 

"Don't  want  them."  The  voice  came  through  a 
muffling  bank  of  pillows. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  —  said  —  I  —  did  —  not  —  want  —  them." 
The  next  minute,  Phyllis's  head  was  down  again,  and 
she  was  sobbing  in  good  earnest. 

Wade  hesitated  for  a  moment,  smiled  slightly,  but 
with  no  mirth;  then  he  pushed  open  the  door  and 
walked  into  the  room. 

"Phil,"  he  asked  quietly;  "what's  the  matter?" 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  157 

"Everything,"  she  wailed  comprehensively.  Then, 
ostrich-like,  she  sought  to  bury  her  head  among  the 
pillows. 

"What?" 

"I  hate  everybody,  and  everybody  hates  me,"  she 
wailed  again,  lifting  her  head  for  an  instant,  then 
burrowing  it  beneath  the  topmost  pillow. 

For  one  single,  unregenerate  instant,  Wade  longed 
to  add  a  great  Amen  to  her  statement.  Then  he 
relented.  Phyllis,  long,  lanky  and  homely,  was  not 
an  attractive  sight,  as  she  lay  face  down  upon  her 
roughened  bed.  Nevertheless,  the  young  man  found 
something  rather  pitiful  hi  her  abject  abandonment 
of  woe.  He  pitied,  and  the  tact  which  had  helped 
him  to  his  professional  success  now  stood  him  in  good 
stead.  He  made  two  long  steps  across  to  the  bed,  sat 
down  on  its  edge  and  slid  one  strong  arm  under  the 
girl's  shaking  body. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  Phil,"  he  urged  her.  "Things 
always  get  better  in  the  telling." 

Phyllis  yielded  to  his  soothing  touch,  and  some- 
what of  her  sobbing  ceased. 

"It's  just  what  I  said,"  she  made  despairing  answer 
at  last.  "Nobody  likes  me,  and  I've  fought  with 
everybody,  and  I  couldn't  go  to  the  game." 

"The  game?" 

There  came  a  sudden  ring  of  hostile  pride  in  the 
girl's  tone. 

"Yes.  Why  not,  as  well  as  Sidney?  Mr.  Argyle 
asked  me  to  go.  His  note  is  on  the  table  now." 


158  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Then  why  didn't  you  go,  Phil?" 

She  sniffed,  but  more  in  disdain  than  grief. 

"Do  you  suppose  I'd  have  gone  in  the  crowd  with 
Rob  and  that  Jack  Blanchard?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I've  fought  with  them,  and  they  don't 
like  me.  Nobody  likes  me,  I  keep  telling  you." 

There  was  a  little  pause.    Then  Wade  spoke. 

"Phil,"  he  said  slowly;  "you've  made  a  good  deal 
of  a  mess  of  things.  In  fact,  it  seems  to  be  a  way 
you  have.  What  makes  you  do  it,  child?" 

Turning  slightly,  Phyllis  stared  up  into  the  kind 
brown  eyes  that  were  watching  her  intently.  Above 
the  eyes,  the  brown  hair  was  crossed  with  an  occa- 
sional silver  thread.  Below  them,  the  lips  showed 
that  life  had  not  been  all  sunshine  for  Wade  Win- 
throp;  but  that  he  had  learned  to  smile  in  sunshine 
or  in  cloud.  And  Wade  had  never  spoken  to  her  in 
just  that  tone  before.  The  distrust  in  the  girl's  gray 
eyes  turned  to  pleading. 

"I  suppose  I  am  born  so,"  she  said  curtly;  but 
there  was  now  no  antagonism  in  her  voice. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You  aren't.  Nobody  is.  If  you  were,  it  would 
be  no  excuse,  though.  Now  see  here,  Phil,  you're 
my  cousin.  I'd  like  to  be  fond  of  you,  to  be  chums 
with  you;  but  you  won't  let  me.  I'd  like  to  be  proud 
of  you,  not  ashamed  as  I  was,  the  other  night  when 
you  slashed  Jack's  coat.  I  don't  know  what  began 
it,  and  I  don't  want  to  know.  Jack  is  a  gentleman, 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  159 

though,  and  I  am  sure  he  never  was  to  blame.  And 
you  say  you've  fought  with  Rob  and  Day,  too,  so 
you  wouldn't  go  with  them  to  the  game.  Poor  little 
soul!  Your  punishment  comes  soon  and  heavy." 
He  watched  her  for  a  moment,  as  she  sat  with  her 
hot  and  swollen  face  buried  in  the  cool,  bright  blos- 
soms he  had  brought.  Then  he  went  on,  "Phil,  I'm 
no  deacon;  I  hate  to  preach.  Still,  you  know,  punish- 
ment generally  does  come,  child.  There  are  only 
two  things  for  you  to  do.  Either  shut  your  teeth 
and  take  it  without  whimpering;  or  else  see  that 
you  don't  bring  it  down  on  yourself  in  the  first  place. 
You've  had  a  bad  day  of  it;  but,  after  all,  it  is  a  good 
deal  your  own  fault." 

"Wade,"  Phyllis  of  a  sudden  abandoned  her  flowers 
and  faced  him  steadily;  "I  like  the  way  you  talk. 
You  hit  hard;  but  you're  honest,  and  don't  dodge. 
It's  —  it  is  my  fault,  I  know." 

"Then,"  as  he  spoke,  Wade  rose  and  switched  the 
lights  on  to  the  darkening  room.  Returning  to  the 
bed,  he  sat  down  once  more  at  Phyllis's  side.  "  Then," 
he  said  cheerily;  "let's  take  hold  of  hands,  Phil,  and 
see  if  we  can't  go  to  work  to  stop  it  off,  right  now." 

And  Phyllis,  without  an  instant's  hesitation,  placed 
her  hand,  flowers  and  all,  in  his. 


160  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

"TV)  y°u  think  I  ought  to  go,  Wade?"    Sidney 

-*-^     asked  doubtfully. 

"Why  not?"  he  questioned. 

"Why?"  she  made  counter  question. 

"Because  you  are  invited." 

"That  doesn't  signify  anything." 

"Only  that  you  are  wanted." 

"Duty,"  Sidney  suggested  disdainfully. 

"No  matter,  so  long  as  you  are  wanted." 

"But  I  don't  care  to  be  taken  like  a  pill,"  she 
rebelled. 

"Some  pills  are  wholesome." 

"I'm  not,"  she  said,  with  a  swift  antagonism  which 
reminded  him  of  Phyllis.  "I  always  disagree  with 
people." 

"Especially  me?" 

"You're  the  one  exception.  And  I  was  too  much 
for  you  at  first.  You  know  they  said  I  managed  you 
till  you  didn't  dare  say  your  soul  was  your  own," 
she  reminded  him  audaciously.  "But,  truly,  Wade, 
I  don't  see  any  need  of  my  going." 

Plunging  his  hands  into  his  overcoat  pockets, 
Wade  tramped  on  at  her  side  without  speaking. 

"Do  you?"  she  urged  him. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  161 

"I  do,  if  you  want  my  opinion." 

Careless  of  who  saw  her,  she  took  one  hand  out  of 
her  muff  and  passed  it  through  his  arm. 

"What  else  do  you  suppose  I  wanted,  when  I  tele- 
phoned down  that  I  was  coming  to  walk  home  with 
you?"  she  demanded. 

Wade  laughed. 

"If  I  know  girls—" 

"You  don't;  you  only  think  you  do,"  Sidney  cut 
in.  "What  then?" 

"If  I  know  girls,  your  intention  was  to  ask  my 
advice  and  then  take  your  own,"  Wade  observed, 
with  unruffled  calm. 

"How  mean  of  you!  Don't  I  always  take  your 
advice,  I'd  like  to  know?  But  now  listen,  Wade. 
I  truly  don't  see  any  sense  in  mixing  things." 

"As  for  instance?"  he  queried,  as  they  halted  on 
the  curb  for  a  line  of  cars  to  pass. 

"Sets." 

"Bedroom,  or  what  you  girls  term  lingerie?"  he 
inquired. 

"Wade!  How  horrid  of  you!"  she  rebuked  him. 
"I  mean  social  sets,  of  course.  You  see,  it's  this 
way.  Day  and  I  are  friends,  good  friends.  We  go 
to  each  other's  houses,  back  and  forth  and  all  the 
time.  We  like  each  other,  and  we  never  fight. 
Still,  Day  has  her  friends,  and  I  have  mine,  and  the 
two  sets  don't  know  each  other  from  Adam.  There's 
no  reason  that  they  should.  My  friends  are  as  nice 
as  hers;  they  like  her,  when  they  meet  her;  but  that's 


162  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IX  XEW  YORK 

no  reason  they  should  begin  asking  her  to  then- 
par  ties." 

"Unless  they  happen  to  want  her,"  Wade  suggested 
dryly. 

"But  they  don't,  and  Amy  Browne  doesn't  want 
me.  I  know  perfectly  well  why  it  was  she  asked 
me  now." 

"What  then?"  Wade  was  smiling  less  at  the  sub- 
ject than  at  his  cousin's  animated  face.  Sidney 
Stayre  was  no  actual  beauty;  nevertheless,  in  her 
dark  green  gown  and  hat,  her  best  gown  and  hat 
donned  in  honour  of  her  cousin's  company,  she 
possessed  far  more  than  her  due  share  of  comeliness. 

"Day  made  her." 

"Knowing  Day,  I  doubt  it." 

Sidney  laughed. 

"You  weren't  behind  the  scenes,  that  first  night 
at  Heatherleigh.  Day  put  me  to  bed;  then  she  went 
off  and  had  it  out  with  those  two  girls.  They  had 
been  horridly  rude  to  Jack  and  me;  next  day,  they 
were  a  pah-  of  cooing  doves.  I've  seen  Amy  Browne 
a  dozen  times  since  then,  and  she  has  been  as  lovely 
as  a  marble  angel,  and  just  about  as  hearty.  As  for 
Jack,  she  speaks  to  him  when  she's  in  the  house,  or 
when  Rob  is  with  him.  Now  she  is  giving  this  large 
party  and  —  Well,  I  don't  want  to  go." 

"You'll  have  a  good  time." 

"Don't  be  too  sure." 

"Rob  will  see  to  that,"  Wade  predicted. 

"Rob  isn't  going." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  LV  NEW  YORK  163 

"No?    Why  is  that?" 

Sidney  wrinkled  her  brows. 

"I  wish  I  really  knew.  He  says  it's  because  he 
has  another  engagement;  but  I'm  afraid  it  is  another 
reason." 

Wade  looked  down  at  her  sharply. 

"Nothing  wrong,  Sidney?" 

She  laughed  out  in  sudden  scorn. 

"Not  with  his  morals,  Wade;  that's  not  Rob 
Argyle.  But  —  haven't  you  noticed  how  much  more 
he  is  limping,  nowadays?" 

"I  hadn't  thought." 

"It  may  be  nothing,"  Sidney  said  hastily.  "Very 
likely  I  imagine  it.  Of  course,  I  watch  him,  all  the 
time;  I  suppose  we  all  do,  for  the  matter  of  that. 
Anyway,  he's  not  going  to  Amy's  party.  I  don't 
know  that  I  wonder,  as  long  as  he  isn't  dancing 
now." 

"Is  that  the  reason  you  don't  want  to  go?"  her 
cousin  asked  half -jealously. 

"What  nonsense!  I  like  Rob;  but  I  can  manage 
to  have  some  fun  without  him,  even  if  he  is  a  dear 
old  boy.  But  now,  Wade,  you  see  here.  I  don't 
know  Amy's  friends,  any  but  one  or  two  of  them. 
I  should  be  a  stranger  to  them  all;  I  shouldn't 
know  the  things  they  talk  about  and  all  that.  If 
Rob  were  there,  he  would  look  out  for  me.  Day 
can't;  she's  another  girl.  And,  besides — "  Sidney 
hesitated  and  then  stuck  fast. 

"Proceed,"  he  bade  her  lightly. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


"It's  not  so  easy,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  couldn't; 
only  I  want  your  help.  You  see,  Wade,  it's  this 
way.  My  father  and  mother  both  are  pleased  about 
my  being  asked.  They  know  who  Amy  is,  and  her 
father,  and  they  want  me  to  go.  My  mother  really 
is  insisting  on  it,  and  —  I  can't,"  she  ended  abruptly. 

"I  don't  see  why." 

"Because,"  she  said  bravely,  though  her  very 
ears  were  hot;  "because  I  haven't  one  thing  to  wear, 
not  one  thing.  I  won't  go  shabby,  and  have  Day 
ashamed  of  me.  Neither  will  I  ask  my  father  for 
a  new  gown.  There  are  lots  of  us  children  to  look 
out  for,  and,  if  I  go  into  college,  next  year,  he  will 
have  all  he  can  do  to  keep  me  there.  Wade,"  she 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm  once  more;  "I  want  you 
to  keep  still  about  this,  and  fight  on  my  side.  Make 
mother  think  you  believe  it  would  be  foolish  for  me 
to  go." 

"  But  I  don't,  Tids.    I  hate  to  have  you  give  it  up." 

"Truly  I  don't  mind,"  she  said  quickly;  "not 
half  so  much  as  I  should  mind  going  there  shabby, 
or  in  a  frock  I  couldn't  afford.  At  best,  I  should  be 
an  outsider.  I  don't  really  belong  in  that  set;  I'm 
better  off  inside  my  own.  Day  is  a  dear  to  want  me, 
and  Amy  is  nice  to  take  me  in.  Still,  I  can't  be  taken." 

"But  really,  Sidney,  haven't  you  something  you 
could  wear?"  Wade  protested  blankly. 

"Not  a  dud." 

"Where's  the  thing  you  wore,  that  night  at  Heath- 
erleigh?" 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  165 

"Split  open  at  the  shoulder,  and  made  over  for 
one  of  the  twins."  Sidney  laughed  at  his  worried 
face.  Then  she  added  coaxingly,  "Now  be  a  dear 
old  boy,  Wadeikins,  and  convince  mother  that  it's 
best  I  shouldn't  go." 

December  had  come  now,  and  with  it  the  first 
snowfall.  The  air  bit  sharply  at  their  ears,  and  the 
wheels  squeaked  coldly  over  the  white  roadway,  as 
the  two  cousins  left  the  Avenue  and  turned  west- 
ward. As  happened  now  and  then,  Sidney  had 
telephoned  down  to  Wade,  that  afternoon,  to  tell 
him  of  her  intention  to  drop  in  on  him,  so  that  they 
might  have  the  long  walk  home  together;  and  Wade, 
who  now  and  then  regretted  his  cousin's  growing 
absorption  in  the  Argyles,  had  hailed  the  suggestion 
with  supreme  content.  Heart  whole  and  fancy 
free,  as  yet  Wade  Winthrop  was  rinding  his  best 
comradeship  with  his  young  cousin.  Phyllis,  thorns 
and  all,  he  had  accepted  as  a  sacred  charge,  since 
chance  and  his  own  tact  had  broken  down  for  him 
the  barriers  of  her  wayward  reserve.  Phyllis  was 
his  duty;  Sidney  his  pleasure,  pure  and  unalloyed. 
The  two  cousins  never  clashed,  never  faced  awk- 
ward pauses,  never  wearied  of  the  other's  company. 
Wade's  brow  was  serenely  content  as,  with  Sidney 
at  his  side,  he  crossed  Washington  Square,  came  out 
under  the  Arch  and  turned  northward  along  the 
Avenue  which,  like  a  vast  backbone,  divides  the 
city's  left  hand  from  its  right. 

For  many  blocks  on  end,  they  had  tramped  on  at  a 


166  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

rapid  pace,  talking  gayly  of  this  thing  and  of  that. 
Then,  as  they  left  the  shops  behind  them  and  came 
to  the  streets  where  trade  ceases  and  where  life  be- 
gins, to  where  the  lights  gleamed  out  from  the  great 
hotels  and  where  the  carriages,  whirling  to  and  fro, 
showed  glimpses  of  bright  faces  and  brave  toilettes 
within,  then  at  last  Sidney  had  come  to  the  subject 
which  had  been  uppermost  in  her  mind.  They  were 
still  arguing  the  question,  when  Bungay  hailed  them 
from  his  own  top  step. 

"Phil,"  Wade  inquired  abruptly,  that  night;  "what 
do  girls  wear  to  parties?" 

Phyllis,  abandoning  her  book,  stared  up  at  Wade 
as  if  he  had  suddenly  gone  demented. 

"Me?  I?  How  should  I  know?"  she  asked 
blankly. 

Wade  cast  a  wholly  humorous  glance  at  her  plain 
dark  frock. 

"By  the  light  of  faith,  I  suppose.  The  way  girls 
do  know  things." 

"What  on  earth  do  you  want  to  know  for?"  she 
asked  suspiciously. 

Wade  laughed. 

"Masculine  curiosity." 

Phyllis's  brow  cleared. 

"Oh,  for  your  paper,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  with  a 
graciousness  which  had  come  to  her  since  the  night 
Wade  had  walked  in  upon  her  woe.  "Well,  I'm  not 
sure  I  can  tell  you." 

"You  might  make  a  try  at  it,"  he  suggested. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  167 

"Hm!  A  large  party,  or  a  small  one?"  she  ques- 
tioned, her  head  on  one  side  and  her  spectacles  sliding 
down  the  bridge  of  her  long  nose. 

"Large." 

"How  old  a  girl?" 

"Oh,"  Wade  appeared  to  be  pondering  the  ques- 
tion; "somewhere  about  Sidney's  age." 

Phyllis  pushed  her  spectacles  into  position,  and 
stared  up  at  Wade  with  the  round-eyed  shrewdness 
of  some  wise  old  parrot. 

"I  suppose  you're  trying  to  get  your  hand  in  as 
society  reporter,"  she  said  scathingly.  "You'd  better 
take  to  writing  fashion  notes,  then,  to  get  your  mate- 
rials ready.  I  thought  you  were  made  for  better 
things." 

"So  I  am.     But  the  girl?"  he  reminded  her. 

However,  Phyllis  had  gone  off  on  a  new  tangent. 

"Oh,  I  know."  She  sat  up  alertly.  "You're  writ- 
ing a  novel,  and  you  don't  know  how  to  dress  the 
heroine.  Let's  see!  A  large  party,  and  the  girl 
about  seventeen?  I'd  put  her  in  a  rose-coloured 
satin  with  flounces  of  cloth-of-silver,  and  a  fan  of 
silver  lace.  I'd  give  her  silver  slippers,  and  a  knot 
of  pearls  in  her  hair,  too.  I  think  that  would  be  just 
lovely." 

And  Wade,  while  he  smiled  assent  to  her  enthusi- 
asm, resolved  to  make  appeal  to  Day.  On  more  than 
one  occasion  heretofore,  he  had  found  that  Day  could 
be  relied  upon  to  keep  her  council. 

At  Wade's  earnest  request,  Sidney  had  agreed  to 


168  DAY;  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

take  one  more  day  to  ponder  the  matter  of  her  invita- 
tion. She  had  assented,  merely  for  the  sake  of  paci- 
fying her  cousin,  since  her  own  mind  was  fully  made 
up  to  refuse  to  go.  As  Sidney  had  said,  she  did  not 
really  belong  to  this  new  set  of  which,  by  way  of  Day 
and  Amy,  she  was  gaining  an  occasional  glimpse. 
She  numbered  her  own  friends  by  hordes,  for  Sidney 
Stayre,  though  never  courting  popularity,  possessed 
the  trick  of  winning  liking  and  then  love  by  reason 
of  her  practical,  downright,  unselfish  sense.  Both  in 
her  own  neighbourhood  and  in  her  school,  she  had 
loyal  and  congenial  friends,  friends  who  shared  her 
tastes  and  whose  way  of  life  she  could  afford.  For 
the  most  part,  they  were  daughters  and  sons  of  pro- 
fessional men,  children  of  homes  where  refinement 
was  wholly  independent  of  great  wealth.  In  Day's 
set,  it  was  all  different.  Sidney's  friends  rode  hi  the 
street  cars,  Day's  in  their  own  carriages;  and  their 
pleasures  were  as  different  as  the  way  in  which  they 
did  their  errands.  Even  apart  from  the  matter  of 
clothes,  Sidney  would  be  an  alien  among  them. 
Their  chatter  was  of  things  of  which  she  lacked  all 
personal  knowledge.  It  was  not  that  the  girl  was 
envious;  it  was  merely  that  she  told  herself,  as  she 
had  told  her  cousin,  that  there  was  no  especial  sense 
in  trying  to  mix  things. 

Her  chin  on  her  fists,  she  was  pondering  the  matter, 
late  the  next  afternoon,  wondering  why  it  was  that, 
with  Day  and  Rob  and  in  the  Argyle  home,  she  never 
felt  an  alien,  although  her  father  had  assured  her 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  169 

that,  where  the  Argyles  led,  the  Brownes  could  only 
follow.  With  Day,  there  was  never  any  question; 
while,  as  for  Rob,  he  was  like  another  Stayre,  only  — 
Sidney  smiled  to  herself  —  like  the  top  one  of  the 
flight.  Then  she  wrinkled  her  brows  suddenly.  It 
was  three  weeks  since  the  game,  and  Rob's  walk  still 
showed  that  something  was  amiss.  She  wondered 
that  his  parents  and  Day  could  be  so  blind  as  not  to 
see  it.  He  had  been  there,  only  the  night  before. 
His  laugh  had  been  as  buoyant  as  ever;  but  Sidney 
had  been  shocked,  when  she  saw  the  heavy  drag  of 
his  foot  as  he  came  forward  to  meet  her.  She  half 
resolved,  at  the  earliest  opportunity,  to  break  her 
word  and  to  speak  of  the  matter  to  Jack  Blanchard. 
In  the  same  house  with  Rob,  Jack  could  contrive  to 
see  that  his  friend  took  the  care  of  himself  which  Rob 
was  so  prone  to  disregard. 

A  buzz  of  the  doorbell  aroused  her,  and  she  glanced 
out  of  the  front  window.  A  motor  wagon,  trim  and 
shiny,  was  drawn  up  before  the  door,  and  a  uniformed 
porter  was  just  lifting  out  a  great  square  box.  The 
name  on  the  wagon  conveyed  nothing  to  Sidney;  but 
the  address  was  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  she  smiled  a 
little. 

"What  an  extravagant  boy  Wade  is!"  she  said  to 
herself.  "I'm  glad  I  don't  have  to  pay  his  tailor 
bills.  It's  a  good  thing  his  father  left  him  a  small 
fortune."  And  then,  for  Mary  was  busy  in  the 
kitchen  and  Phyllis  was  out,  she  went  to  the  door  to 
take  in  the  box, 


170  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Miss  Stayre?"  the  man  said  interrogatively. 

"I  am  Miss  Stayre." 

The  man  shoved  the  box  into  Sidney's  hands. 

"All  right.  Here's  your  dress."  And,  with  a  nod, 
he  was  gone. 

The  door  swung  together  to  shut  out  the  frosty 
twilight.  Then,  alone  in  the  darkening  hall,  Sidney 
stood  still,  hugging  the  great  box  in  her  arms. 

"It's  Wade,"  she  said,  and  a  big  round  tear  slid 
down  her  nose.  The  tear,  though,  was  not  for  her 
own  pleased  girlish  vanity,  but  rather  of  gratitude 
for  her  cousin's  love. 

She  was  still  standing  there,  clasping  the  box  in 
her  embrace,  when  the  bell  rang  once  more.  Sure 
that  it  was  Wade,  she  freed  one  arm  to  open  the 
door;  but,  instead  of  Wade  upon  the  threshold,  she 
found  Rob,  his  shoulders  white  with  the  snow  which 
was  beginning  to*  fall. 

"The  coffin  of  the  Prophet!"  he  ejaculated,  as  he 
shook  himself  free  of  his  coat.  "What's  the  bonbon 
box,  Sidney?" 

Her  answering  laugh  was  a  bit  hysterical. 

"It's  Wade." 

Rob,  stick  hi  hand,  perambulated  around  her  in  a 
circle. 

"You  don't  say  so!  Poor  fellow,  he  must  be  badly 
smashed,  to  come  home  in  such  a  shape  as  that!"  he 
observed  sympathetically.  "Open  him  up,  Sidney, 
and  let  me  take  a  look  at  him.  For  the  life  of  me,  I 
can't  see  how  they've  folded  him  up." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  171 

"I  don't  mean  he's  inside  here,"  Sidney  explained, 
breathless  with  nervous  mirth.  "I  think  he's  ordered 
a  gown  for  me  for  Amy's  party." 

"What  for?"  Rob  asked  bluntly.  " You  generally 
manage  to  get  your  own  gowns  up  alone." 

Sidney  blushed  scarlet.     Then  she  said  honestly,  — 

"I  didn't  have  a  thing  I  could  wear,  and  I  didn't 
mean  to  go.  I  told  Wade  about  it,  and  now  this  box 
Jias  come.  The  man  said  it  was  a  dress.  If  it  is,  I 
am  sure  it's  Wade." 

"How  jolly  of  Wade!"  Rob  said,  with  a  brotherly 
interest  which  Sidney  was  quick  to  feel  and  like. 
Then  he  fished  in  a  series  of  pockets  and  brought  out 
his  knife.  "Let's  get  it  open  and  take  a  look,"  he 
advised  her  practically. 

The  cords  tightened  against  the  sharp  blades  of  the 
knife,  tightened,  snapped,  and  fell  back,  rattling  on 
the  box.  Rob  lifted  the  cover,  came  on  a  layer  of 
silver  paper,  lifted  the  silver  and  came  upon  folds  on 
folds  of  white  tissue  paper. 

"They've  done  it  up  for  keeps,"  he  announced  then. 
"Pitch  in,  Sidney,  and  haul  out  your  plum.  By 
Jove,  here's  the  card!"  And  he  handed  to  Sidney  a 
card  on  which  was  neatly  printed  From  a  little 
brother  of  Santa  Glaus. 

Sidney  seized  the  card,  and  apparently  forgot  the 
box,  while  she  stood  staring  at  the  bit  of  pasteboard 
in  her  hand.  Rob  cleared  his  throat  once  or  twice  to 
remind  her  of  his  presence,  then  yielded  to  his  curi- 
osity, parted  the  folds  of  paper  and  peered  in. 


172      DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"By  Jove!"  he  said  again,  and  went  hurrying 
through  the  hall. 

Sidney  roused  herself. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Rob?"  she  demanded. 

"To  the  telephone." 

"What  for?" 

Rob  smiled  languishingly  backward  over  his 
shoulder. 

"To  tell  Amy  I'm  coming,  after  all.  I'll  call  for 
you  at  any  tune  you  say." 

It  was  growing  late,  the  night  of  Amy's  party, 
when  the  cab  stopped  at  the  Stayres'  door  and  Rob 
brought  Sidney  up  the  steps.  Late  as  it  was,  how- 
ever, the  girl  found  Wade  standing  in  the  hall. 

"Was  it  a  good  time?"  he  asked,  as  soon  as  the 
door  had  closed  upon  Rob's  departing  heels. 

"Beautiful!" 

"And  you  weren't  sorry  you  went?" 

For  answer,  she  let  her  cloak  slide  to  the  floor,  and 
turned  herself  about  for  his  approval. 

"Sorry!    In  such  a  gown!    But,  Wade  — " 

He  understood  the  little  pause,  understood,  too, 
the  break  in  her  gay  young  voice.  Regardless  of  her 
finery,  he  threw  his  arm  across  her  shoulders  and 
turned  her  face  to  his. 

"Tids,"  he  said  gravely  then;  "once  upon  a  time, 
there  was  a  sorry  fellow  with  a  pair  of  lungs  and  a 
temper.  He  hated  most  things  and  all  people,  espe- 
cially himself.  And  then  there  was  a  little  cousin 
who  came  from  nowhere  and  was  jolly;  and  then  he 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  173 

didn't  hate  things  any  more.  The  debt  will  always 
be  on  my  side,  Tids;  but  this  wasn't  a  debt  at  all, 
only  just  a  little  something  to  remind  you  that  your 
old  cousin  likes  you  rather  well." 

But  Sidney  could  not  speak.  Instead,  she  stood 
for  a  moment,  looking  up  into  the  eyes  above  her  own. 
Then,  with  a  little  caressing  gesture  which  was  alien 
to  her  gay  self-reliance,  she  turned  suddenly  and 
rested  her  bright  hair  against  his  shoulder. 

"Wade,  you  always  were  a  dear,"  was  all  she  said. 

For  a  moment,  he  held  her  close,  with  the  deeper 
affection  which  belongs  to  undemonstrative  natures 
such  as  theirs.  Then  gently  he  released  her,  and 
stood  gazing  down  at  her  in  manifest  approval. 
And  well  he  might  approve!  Dressed  as  she  had 
never  been  before  in  all  her  life,  flushed  with  excite- 
ment and  alight  with  her  happy  love  for  her  cousin, 
Sidney  Stayre,  in  her  soft  white  frock,  was  enjoying 
her  hour  of  actual  beauty,  yet  was  as  unconscious 
as  a  little  child  that  she  could  be  good  to  look  upon. 
Wade's  gaze  moved  over  her  from  the  top  of  her 
bright  brown  hair  to  the  tip  of  her  white  slipper. 
Then,  smiling,  he  bent  forward  and  lifted  her  glove 
to  his  lips.  The  gesture  was  of  quaint  chivalry; 
not  so  his  words. 

"Tids,  you  are  a  comfortable  sort  of  creature," 
he  remarked.  "Now  do  sit  down  and  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

And  Sidney,  nothing  loath,  dropped  down  beside 
him  upon  the  worn  old  sofa  in  the  hall. 


174  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"After  all,"  she  said  at  length,  as  she  rose  to  go 
up-stairs;  "next  to  you,  you  extravagant  boy,  I 
owe  my  good  time  to  Rob.  He  wasn't  going;  some 
other  people  called  for  Day.  Then,  just  because  I 
decided  to  go,  after  I  had  said  I  shouldn't,  he  sent 
word  to  Amy  that  he  had  changed  his  mind.  Of 
course,  he  couldn't  dance;  but  he  looked  out  for  me 
and  introduced  all  his  nicest  friends.  It  made  all 
the  difference  in  the  world  to  me,  their  knowing  he 
was  with  me.  Wade,"  she  turned  back  to  him 
abruptly;  "what  have  I  done  to  get  such  friends?" 
•  "Just  been  yourself,  Tids,"  he  assured  her  calmly. 

Then  he  switched  off  the  lights  and  drove  her  away 
to  bed. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

TACK  BLANCHARD  rose,  buttoned  his  coat  and 
**  stood  at  attention.  The  gesture,  left  over  from 
the  days  when,  a  mere  boy  in  years,  if  not  in  char- 
acter, he  had  worn  the  Queen's  uniform,  suited  his 
wide  shoulders  and  keen  face. 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  he  said  briefly. 

Sidney  sat  still,  and  stared  up  at  him  with  thought- 
ful eyes. 

"And  you'll  make  him  understand  that  you  spoke 
of  it  first,"  she  urged. 

"Surely.  I  fancy  it  won't  be  necessary,  though. 
Rob  has  known  you  longer  than  I  have." 

Sidney  was  too  much  in  earnest  just  now  to  blush 
at  the  implied  praise.  Besides,  Jack's  manner  was 
always  as  downright  as  her  own. 

"Has  he  said  anything  to  you  about  it?" 

"Not  a  word." 

"But  you've  noticed  it?" 

Jack  nodded. 

"Since  ever  so  long  now.  I  don't  know  when  it 
first  struck  me  he  wasn't  walking  as  well.  I  think 
Day  sees  it,  too." 

"I  wish  he  wouldn't  let  it  go,"  Sidney  said  restively. 
"A  little  neglect  can  do  such  harm,  and  he  was  getting 
on  so  well." 


176  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Jack  took  a  turn  across  the  floor,  came  back  and 
halted  at  Sidney's  side. 

"I  know.  And  yet,  poor  chap,  no  wonder  he  hates 
to  lie  up.  The  doctor  might  put  him  to  bed  again,  you 
know.  What  began  it?" 

"He  slipped,  coming  down  the  stairs.  It's  a  shame 
to  make  him  live  on  those  bare  floors,  anyway," 
Sidney  made  impatient  answer.  "He  didn't  say 
much  about  it  at  home,  and,  ever  since,  he  has  been 
shutting  his  teeth  and  trying  to  walk  even,  so  nobody 
should  find  it  out." 

Jack  nodded  again. 

"I  know.  I  caught  him,  one  day  when  he  thought 
no  one  was  about.  Since  then,  I've  watched  him. 
He  stiffens  himself  all  over,  before  he  starts  to  move. 
He's  not  going  out  so  much,  either." 

"  Oh,  dear ! "  Sidney  said  disconsolately.  "  What  can 
wedo?  It's  not  my  place  to  go  to  his  mother.  Rob  would 
never  forgive  me,  if  I  mixed  up  in  his  concerns." 

"No,"  Jack  made  thoughtful  reply.  "And  I'm 
not  sure  I  would,  either,  in  his  place." 

Impatiently  Sidney  rose  and  stood  facing  him. 

"Can't  you  do  something?"  she  protested.  "You're 
not  a  girl." 

Jack  laughed,  as  he  looked  at  her  intrepid  face  and 
figure,  unconscious  of  self  as  any  boy. 

"I  don't  see  what  difference  that  makes,"  he 
objected. 

"You  would,  if  you  were  under  the  weather,  or  in 
bad  luck,"  Sidney  returned  a  little  hotly.  "You 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  177 

take  us  girls  for  good-weather  friends;  when  things 
go  wrong,  you  want  another  boy." 

Keen,  clean,  kind,  Jack's  eyes  looked  into  hers. 
Then  he  made  answer,  grave  and  downright  as 
before,  — 

"It  depends  on  the  girl,  Miss  Sidney.  I  rather 
fancy  that,  if  I  were  down  on  my  luck,  I  should 
come  to  you  for  help  —  and  get  it." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  with  a  gesture  of  frank 
liking. 

" Thank  you,"  she  answered.  "I  wish  you  would; 
only  I  hope  the  time  will  never  come." 

And,  in  the  meantime,  Day  was  anticipating  Jack's 
promised  talk  with  Rob. 

It  was  the  week  before  Christmas  and,  contrary  to 
their  custom,  the  New  York  streets  were  buried  in 
heaps  of  snow  which,  falling  all  the  day  and  night 
before,  had  baffled  the  efforts  of  the  city  fathers  to 
have  it  cleared  away.  All  morning  long  and  all 
the  afternoon,  the  laden  carts  had  trundled  to  the 
rivers,  dumped  their  loads  and  rattled  emptily  back 
again  to  be  filled  once  more.  Still,  however,  the 
snow  lay  deep  and  white  and  glistening  above  the 
up-town  streets.  Down  town,  already  the  rushing 
traffic  had  trodden  it  to  a  sodden  mass  of  chilly  mud, 
black  and  wet  and  sticky  as  pitch.  In  the  turmoil 
of  those  streets,  the  beauty  of  winter  could  come 
but  rarely,  and,  coming,  it  could  not  endure.  Only 
the  crystal  sky,  seen  in  narrow  stripes  between  the 
canon-like  walls  of  the  lofty  buildings,  and  the  icy 


178  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

wind  sweeping  up  from  the  river  could  show  to  the 
down- town  world  that  winter  was  in  the  land. 

Up  town,  however,  it  was  different.  The  streets 
still  stretched  away  in  long  white  ribbons,  and  the 
snowy  open  spaces  of  the  Park  gleamed  back  at  the 
crystal  spaces  of  the  sky. 

"It's  not  Canada,  by  any  means;  but  it  will  pass," 
Rob  had  said  to  Day,  when  she  came  in,  that  noon. 
"Let's  go  out  to  the  Bronx.  It  may  be  our  one  sleigh 
ride  of  the  winter." 

Day  had  demurred.  Her  Christmas  shopping  was 
still  to  do,  and  there  were  lessons  for  the  morrow. 
Then,  watching  Rob's  disappointed  face,  she  yielded 
and  turned  her  half-formed  excuses  into  enthusi- 
astic assent  to  her  brother's  plan. 

Throughout  the  long  afternoon,  Day  had  been 
even  gayer  than  her  wont.  Few  girls  could  have 
kept  from  gayety,  for  Rob  was  in  one  of  his  most 
buoyant  moods,  and  Rob,  under  such  conditions, 
was  a  comrade  second  to  none.  But  at  last,  as 
the  snow  before  them  was  turning  from  gold  to 
bluish  gray,  Rob,  with  a  deft  twist  of  his  hand, 
brought  the  horses  to  a  walk  and  turned  to  speak  to 
Day.  To  his  surprise,  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him  steadily,  and  there  was  a  look  of  dull  alarm  in 
their  brown  depths. 

"What  is  it,  Day?"  he  asked  her. 

For  a  moment,  she  snuggled  closer  to  his  side, 
until  her  gray  fur  coat  was  pressed  hard  against 
his  shoulder. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  179 

"Rob,"  she  said  steadily;  "I  want  you  to  tell 
me  something,  tell  me  honestly." 

"What's  that?" 

"Are  you  walking  as  well  as  you  did?" 

The  question  took  him  by  surprise.  Like  Sidney, 
he  too  had  thought  Day  blind. 

"Well,  no." 

"I  thought  not.     Nor  as  much?" 

"Not  quite." 

"Why?"  In  vain  she  tried  to  hold  the  fear  out 
of  her  voice. 

Reassuringly  he  passed  one  arm  around  her  waist, 
transferring,  as  he  did  so,  the  reins  into  his  other 
hand. 

"Because  it  hurts,"  he  replied  then  laconically. 

"Much?" 

"Not  the  way  it  did  at  first.  More  than  it  has 
done  lately." 

"What  did  it?" 

"I  slipped  on  the  stairs,  one  night,  and  gave  myself 
a  twist.  Don't  worry,  Day.  It  really  wasn't  much." 

Day's  cheeks  were  growing  whiter. 

"Does  mother  know?" 

Rob  shook  his  head. 

"She'd  only  worry." 

"Nor  the  doctor?" 

"What's  the  use?" 

"  Every  thing.     Rob,  you  must  tell  him." 

"But  I  don't  want  to,  Day.  I'm  afraid  of  conse- 
quences." As  he  spoke,  he  laughed  uneasily. 


180  DAY:  HER  YEAR  LV  NEW  YORK 

She  mistook  his  meaning,  and  her  breath  came 
short  with  sudden  fear. 

"Rob!"  Her  hands  shut  on  a  fold  of  his  fur- 
lined  coat.  "  Do  you  think  it's  something  that  — 
will  last?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  dear,"  he  answered  reassuringly, 
for  he  read  the  terror  in  her  face  and  voice.  "I  am 
taking  care  of  it,  and  it  will  be  all  right  in  time.  If 
I  went  to  him,  though,  he  might  be  in  a  hurry  to  put 
me  right,  and  send  me  off  to  bed." 

"But  it  would  be  over  sooner,"  she  urged  him. 

"And  not  half  so  pleasantly.  Let  me  have  my 
way,  Day,"  and  his  voice  was  urgent.  "I  hate  to 
be  knocked  out  of  all  the  fun  just  now.  I'm  taking 
care  of  it,  and  doing  all  the  things  he'd  tell  me  to 
do.  If  you  watched  me,  you  would  see  how  little 
walking  I  really  do.  I'm  staying  out  of  most  things; 
I  suppose  I  had  no  business  to  go  to  Amy's  party. 
Still,  one  wants  a  little  frivolity  now  and  then." 

The  gray  fur  coat  pressed  even  closer.  Then  Day 
said  slowly,  — 

"  Yes,  I  know.   It's  horrid,  Rob ;  but  I  truly  wish — " 

Rob  laughed,  and  shook  his  head. 

"I'd  see  his  worship?  But  I  don't  want  to  go  to 
bed." 

"Perhaps  he  wouldn't  put  you  there,"  Day  made 
hopeful  suggestion,  for  she  felt  the  drop  in  Rob's  gay 
voice. 

The  drop  came  again,  as  Rob  gathered  up  the  lines 
and  turned  the  horses'  heads  towards  home. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  181 

"Yes,  Day,  I  am  afraid  he  would." 

"What  do  you  think  I  ought  to  do?"  Day  said  to 
Jack,  that  night. 

He  had  come  into  the  parlour  to  find  her  pacing, 
pacing  the  floor,  her  brow  clouded  and  her  lips 
unsteady. 

"Where's  Rob?"  he  had  demanded. 

"Up  in  his  room."  Then,  with  a  sudden  outburst 
of  girlish  confidence,  she  had  turned  to  Jack  for 
sympathy  and  counsel. 

And  Jack  had  heard  her  to  the  end,  without  inter- 
ruption or  comment,  nodding  slightly  now  and  then 
as  he  stood  facing  her  upon  the  rug. 

"I  think  some  one  ought  to  tell  the  doctor,"  he 
answered  then. 

"You  don't  mean  me?"  Day's  question  was  ap- 
pealing. Now  that  she  had  spoken  out,  she  realized 
all  at  once  how  much  she  was  relying  upon  Jack's 
judgment. 

He  hesitated.     Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"No;  it's  not  your  place.  It  must  be  done,  though. 
Rob's  not  a  baby;  he  must  do  it  for  himself." 

Day  turned  pitiful. 

"Poor  old  Rob!  He  does  hate  it  so,  and  I'm  not 
sure  I  wonder." 

Jack's  eyes  were  very  kind;  but  they  never 
wavered. 

"That's  no  reason  he  should  funk." 

Day  flashed  into  sudden  wrath. 

"Rob's  no  coward,"  she  said  hotly. 


182  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Not  generally;  but  now  — " 

"Now?"  she  prodded  him,  as  he  paused. 

"Now,"  Jack  said  gravely;  "I  rather  think  he  is." 

If  eyes  could  stab,  Jack  would  have  fallen  on  the 
floor  before  Day's  glance.  Then  she  lifted  her  head 
proudly. 

"Is  this  what  you  call  being  Rob's  friend?"  she 
demanded  scornfully. 

"Yes.  It  is."  The  answer  came  in  two  crisp 
sentences. 

"To  be  slandering  him  to  his  sister?"  The  second 
question  came  with  still  more  haughtiness. 

Jack  winced,  but  did  not  falter. 

"To  his  sister  sooner  than  to  any  stranger.  I  shall 
say  the  same  thing  to  Rob." 

"That  he's  a  coward  and  a  sneak?"  Day  bit  her 
lip  abruptly,  to  hide  its  angry  quivering. 

"Coward,  yes.  Sneak,  no.  Rob  doesn't  know  the 
meaning  of  the  word." 

"Nor  coward,  either,"  Day  answered  sharply. 
"Rob  has  borne  everything  you  can  think  of,  and 
never  made  a  whimper." 

"I  know.  No  fellow  could  have  been  more  plucky 
than  he  has  been.  That's  the  very  reason  I  hate  to 
see  him  spoil  his  record  now." 

"I  don't  see  how  he  is  spoiling  it  at  all."  Day's 
voice  threatened  to  grow  sullen. 

Jack's  answer  came  directly  and  direct. 

"By  funking  a  few  days  in  bed,  for  the  sake  of 
keeping  in  the  fun." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  183 

"Who  wouldn't?"  Day  demanded.  "I  hate  a  per- 
son who  goes  to  bed  for  nothing." 

"So  do  I.  They  make  me  long  to — "  Jack 
laughed  a  little;  "to  dynamite  them.  But  Rob's 
isn't  a  case  like  that.  A  few  days  now  may  save 
a  few  weeks,  later  on." 

"I  know  that,"  Day  assented,  for  Jack's  laugh  had 
broken  in  upon  the  edge  of  her  antagonism.  "Still, 
I  confess  I  like  his  grit  in  putting  it  through  alone." 

For  a  long  moment,  Jack  stood  staring  down  at  the 
dainty,  girlish  figure  in  the  chair  before  him.  Living 
in  the  house  with  Day,  he  yet  knew  her  far  less  than 
Rob,  less,  even,  than  he  knew  Sidney  Stayre.  As  a 
rule,  with  Day  Argyle,  he  met  her  upon  the  surface 
of  things,  talking  and  laughing  gayly,  but  reserving 
for  Rob's  leisure  his  own  more  earnest  hours.  It  had 
seemed  to  him  incredible  that  any  girl  so  dainty  and 
so  blithe  as  Day  could  know  the  graver  side  of  life, 
or,  knowing,  could  ever  care.  As  a  rule,  he  had 
treated  Day  like  a  pretty  toy,  and  she  had  been  quick 
to  give  him  what  he  sought  and  nothing  more.  To- 
night, for  the  first  time,  they  were  meeting  upon  solid 
ground,  and  as  yet  the  ground  between  them  was  not 
wholly  smooth. 

Nevertheless,  however  much  he  might  be  inclined 
to  smile  at  her  quick  antagonism,  Jack  Blanchard  was 
swift  to  approve  the  girl's  haughty  defence  of  her 
brother,  her  angry  reception  of  his  own  criticism. 
Even  in  the  midst  of  his  talk  with  her,  it  came  to 
him  again  and  yet  again  what  a  delight  it  must  be  for 


184  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

a  fellow  to  have  a  sister  such  as  that.  Jack's  life  had 
been  singularly  remote  from  girls,  singularly  un- 
learned in  girl-y  ways.  An  only  child,  he  had  gone 
to  a  boys'  school,  thence  to  college  and  thence  into 
the  army.  In  none  of  these,  girl  life  had  had  any 
share.  Day  and  Sidney  were  in  reality  the  first  girls 
with  whom  he  had  come  into  close  contact.  From 
the  start,  he  had  felt  himself  mental  and  moral 
chums  with  Sidney.  With  Day,  it  was  different. 
He  liked  her,  liked  to  watch  her  and  talk  to  her;  but 
he  confessed  to  himself  that  never,  at  any  given 
instant,  could  he  predict  what  she  would  do  next. 
Sidney  was  like  another  boy,  a  great,  frank  boy. 
Day  was  girl  to  the  marrow  of  her  spine. 

And  to-night  he  had  discussed  the  same  subject 
with  both  girls.  He  and  Sidney  had  understood  each 
other  from  the  start;  they  had  viewed  the  matter 
with  the  same  keen  and  practical  eyes.  Day,  on  the 
other  hand,  seeking  his  advice,  had  received  it  petu- 
lantly, protesting  and  leaving  him  with  a  curious 
sense  of  being  somehow  in  the  wrong.  He  felt  the 
need  to  justify  himself,  yet  hesitated,  lest  she  resent 
his  earnest  speaking.  As  yet,  Jack  Blanchard  had 
no  notion  of  the  real  character  hidden  beneath  Day's 
blithe  exterior.  Later,  he  was  destined  to  find  it 
out. 

His  hands  behind  his  back  and  his  head  bent,  Jack 
slowly  paced  the  rug,  four  paces  this  way,  four  that. 
Day  eyed  him  furtively,  the  while.  It  was  against 
her  girlish  creed  to  enter  into  a  wanton  quarrel  with 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IX  NEW  YORK  185 

any  one,  least  of  all  with  her  brother's  chosen  friend. 
To  be  sure,  she  felt  she  had  had  ample  cause.  Rob 
Argyle,  at  least  in  her  hearing,  had  rarely  been  a  sub- 
ject of  criticism,  and  Day  felt  it  was  her  right  to 
resent  that  criticism  as  unreasonable,  unjust.  Never- 
theless, now  that  her  ruffled  temper  was  settling  down 
a  bit,  Day  confessed  to  herself  frankly  that  never 
before  in  all  the  months  she  had  known  him,  had 
Jack  Blanchard  shown  himself  unjust.  He  was  un- 
reasonable now,  beyond  a  doubt.  Still,  he  probably 
thought  he  had  a  reason  and  that,  to  a  man  of  Jack's 
calibre,  amounted  to  the  same  thing  as  having  one, 
for  purposes  of  argument. 

Day  hated  quarrels;  as  a  rule,  too,  she  had  had 
scanty  experience  in  them.  When  she  and  Rob,  on 
rare  occasions,  struck  fire,  the  spark  died  out  before 
it  had  had  time  to  set  fire  to  anything.  For  no  other 
boy  save  one  had  she  ever  cared  enough  to  quarrel, 
and  he  was  an  Englishman  and  deliberate.  Jack  was 
English  and  deliberate,  too,  but  with  a  difference. 
Day  felt  sure  that,  under  his  level  manner,  Jack 
Blanchard's  nature  was  as  fiery  as  a  man's  could  be, 
and,  accordingly,  the  more  her  own  temper  cooled, 
the  more  she  regretted  the  passing  antagonism  which, 
however  justified,  could  not  have  failed  to  scar  their 
friendship.  Now,  as  she  watched  him  pace  the  rug, 
her  girlish  intuitions  assured  her  that  Jack  was  regret- 
ting it,  too,  that  he  was  pondering  how  best  to  remove 
the  difference  which  lay  between  them.  Neverthe- 
less, Day  held  her  peace.  It  was  not  for  her  to  help 


186  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

him  along.  Whatever  Jack  had  to  say,  should  come 
from  himself,  unaided. 

Her  hands  clasped  loosely  in  the  lap  of  her  white 
cloth  frock,  her  head  resting  against  the  high  back 
of  her  chair,  Day  sat  very  still,  watching  the  tall 
figure  which  crossed  and  recrossed  before  the  scarlet 
patch  of  the  open  fire.  She  took  note  of  the  tighten- 
ing fingers,  of  the  steady,  even  stride,  of  the  head 
bent  forward,  but  still  showing  something  of  its  usual 
proud  poise.  The  brown  eyes  were  bent  upon  the 
rug  at  their  feet;  but  Day  could  see  the  profile,  the 
level  brows,  the  straight,  thin  nose,  the  clean-cut 
chin,  and  she  told  herself  that,  whether  she  agreed 
with  him  or  not,  Jack  Blanchard  was  surely  good  to 
look  upon.  Then  his  steady  stride  caught  her  wan- 
dering attention,  and  it  threw  her  mind  backward  to 
the  months  of  hardship  and  denial  in  South  Africa, 
to  the  stormy  nights  and  the  nights  of  hushed  alarm 
when  that  stride  had  sounded  upon  the  open,  empty 
veldt  where  Jack  was  doing  picket  duty.  Day's  eyes 
softened,  and  she  stirred  impulsively. 

As  if  her  slight  movement  had  aroused  him  from 
his  reverie,  Jack  stayed  his  step  and  lifted  his  head  to 
face  her. 

"Day,"  he  said  slowly;  "you  think  I'm  hard  on 
Rob." 

His  voice  had  lost  its  dominant,  clear  note,  and 
sounded  lower  and  appealing.  Something  in  its  ca- 
dence quickened  Day's  pulse,  and  she  nodded  at  him 
without  daring  trust  herself  to  speak. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  187 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  answered.  "I  didn't  mean  to  be. 
You  know  my  love  for  Rob,  and  all  I  owe  him.  But 
—  can't  you  see?  It's  this  way,  Day.  He's  got  a 
body  of  his  own,  a  splendid  body.  It  was  given  to 
him  in  first  rate  order  and  —  isn't  there  a  bit  of  duty 
in  trying  to  keep  it  up  to  the  mark?" 

Again  Day  nodded.  Her  eyes,  though,  showed 
that  she  was  catching  the  fire  of  his  idea,  and  Jack 
rushed  on. 

"Down  there  in  South  Africa  —  I  don't  mean  to 
talk  about  it  often  —  we  learned  some  sharp,  hard 
lessons,  no  end  of  them.  Among  the  rest,  we  learned 
what  our  bodies  counted  for.  We  big,  strong  fel- 
lows, if  we  took  decent  care  of  ourselves,  could  accom- 
plish double  the  work  that  the  little,  weak  ones  could. 
And  we  learned  that  the  fellow  who  took  best  care  of 
his  feet,  came  in  from  next  day's  march  in  best  con- 
dition. And  we  were  down  there  to  march.  Our 
bodies  generally  are  given  us  for  something  or  other 
definite.  Things  like  that  don't  happen  in  this 
world.  And,  if  they  really  are  given  us  for  some 
especial  use,  it's  only  fair  for  us  to  do  our  best  to 
keep  them  in  first  rate  working  condition.  After  all, 
Day,  it's  work  of  one  sort  or  another  that  we're  put 
here  to  accomplish.  And  we  don't  all  of  us  have 
such  perfect  bodies  as  Rob  and  I.  Still  — " 

"I  think  I  understand,"  Day  said. 

But  Jack  shook  off  her  words,  too  much  in  earnest 
now  to  heed  them. 

"No;  you  don't.    Else  you'd  not  stand  by  Rob  in 


188  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

this  thing,"  he  said  directly.  "When  your  father 
gave  you  the  pony,  what  did  you  do  with  him?" 

"Rode  him,"  Day  made  prompt  answer.  Then 
she  flushed  scarlet,  as  it  dawned  upon  her  that  she 
had  not  made  the  answer  Jack  desired. 

"Yes,"  Jack  assented  shortly.  "You  also  saw  to 
it,  though,  that  he  had  the  best  care  of  any  horse  in 
the  stable.  He  was  a  splendid  present,  and  you  took 
care  to  keep  him  so.  That's  the  way  with  Rob;  he 
ought  to  look  out  for  himself.  A  body  like  his  is  no 
mean  thing  to  own;  it's  up  to  him  to  keep  it  in  good 
order." 

"And  he  does,"  Day  protested. 

"Not  much.  Not  when  he  runs  the  risk  of  spoil- 
ing it  for  always,  for  the  sake  of  a  few  weeks'  fun  now. 
Can't  you  see  it,  Day?  It's  just  as  'tis  with  Phyllis 
Stayre.  That  child  has  no  business,  no  moral  right, 
to  turn  herself  into  such  a  fright." 

Day  swiftly  attacked  the  side  issue. 

"Phyllis  isn't  a  beauty,"  she  observed. 

"No.  Still,  that's  no  reason  she  should  be  a 
scarecrow,"  Jack  replied,  with  masculine  bluntness. 
"I  don't  know  much  about  clothes;  but  I'd  be  willing 
to  bet  I  could  take  Phyllis  Stayre  and  fuzzle  her  up 
a  bit,  and  put  her  into  a  pretty  gown  and  a  wide 
hat  with  feathers,  and  make  her  pass  in  a  crowd. 
Now  what  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"At  you,"  Day  gasped,  as  she  wiped  her  eyes,  damp 
with  mirth  at  Jack's  unexpected  climax.  "The  idea 
of  Phil  in  a  picture  hat  is  rather  startling,  Jack." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  189 

"I'd  like  to  start  it,"  he  answered  promptly. 

But  Day,  with  a  swift  change  of  mood,  had  cast 
her  merriment  from  her.  Rising,  she  stood  before 
him,  looking  up  at  him  with  brown  eyes  as  true  and 
steady  as  his  own. 

"Jack,"  she  said;  "I  was  cross  to  you,  a  little 
while  ago.  You  needn't  shake  your  head.  I  saw 
you  knew  it  in  the  time  of  it,  and  now  I'm  sorry. 
And  about  Rob,  I  hate  to  own  up;  but  —  I  think 
you're  right." 

For  a  moment,  he  stood  smiling  down  into  her 
uplifted  face.  Then  his  strong  hand  shut  on  hers. 

"And  not  unjust,  Day?"  he  questioned,  with  an 
eagerness  which  surprised  them  both. 

"No,  Jack,"  she  answered  gently.  "I  begin  to 
think  you  couldn't  be." 


190  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

REATLY  to  the  sorrow  of  his  friends,  Rob 
Argyle  spent  the  Christmas  holidays  in  his  own 
room  where,  alternating  between  the  bed  and  the 
couch,  he  railed  at  the  doctor,  girded  at  his  woes,  and 
made  merry  with  what  grace  he  could. 

"Confound  you,  you  old  fraud!"  he  said  to  Jack  on 
Christmas  eve.  "You're  more  responsible  for  this 
mess  than  you  know." 

"Sorry!"  Jack  answered  briefly.  "Shall  I  beat 
my  breast,  Rob?" 

"No;  I'd  rather  take  a  hand  in  the  beating,  my- 
self, unless  I  leave  you  to  Sidney.  You've  entirely 
wrecked  her  plans,  you  and  his  medical  majesty." 

"How's  that?" 

"She  was  going  to  have  us  all  there,  this  evening. 
I  sent  her  word  to  go  ahead  and  leave  me  out;  but 
Day  balked  and  refused  to  go  without  me,  so  the 
whole  thing  fell  through.  Mean  trick  of  yours,  too." 

Jack  laughed,  and  his  laugh  sounded  comfortable 
and  at  peace  with  the  world.  For  the  past  week,  he 
had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  spending  all  his  evenings 
in  Rob's  room,  where  the  two  young  fellows  alter- 
nately read  the  evening  papers  and  gossiped  of  all 
things  upon  earth.  As  a  rule,  Day  was  with  them; 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  191 

but  to-night  she  was  mysteriously  absent,  for  Christ- 
mas was  at  hand,  and  she  had  much  to  do. 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you  were  a  candidate  for 
sympathy,  Rob,"  he  said  unfeelingly. 

By  way  of  answer,  Rob  hurled  a  cushion  at  him 
with  an  aim  as  unerring  as  ever  he  had  given  a  pig- 
skin ball. 

"Much  you  know  about  it!"  he  retorted. 

Jack  appropriated  the  pillow,  stuffed  it  back  of  his 
head  and  turned  to  stare  lazily  at  the  recumbent 
form  on  the  couch. 

"That's  where  you  are  right,"  he  assented  then. 
"Granted  the  mere  detail  of  an  invalid  leg,  we  haven't 
had  much  in  common.  Out  in  Africa,  we  didn't  go 
in  for  down  pillows  and  wadded  silk  dressing-gowns, 
you  old  Sybarite.  We  were  thankful  for  a  mattress  on 
a  plank  and  a  layer  of  mosquito  netting  on  top  of  us." 

"I'll  change  places  with  you,"  Rob  made  generous 
offer. 

"Thanks,  no.  Your  father  couldn't  spare  me  from 
the  office.  Neither,  if  I  know  anything  about  it, 
could  Day  spare  you  from  the  house.  She  treats  you 
like  a  Chinese  idol,  in  these  latter  days.  She  always 
did,  for  the  matter  of  that.  Do  you  know,  Rob," 
Jack  watched  his  friend  with  languid,  half-shut  eyes; 
"for  the  life  of  me,  I  can't  see  why  you're  not  in- 
sufferable." 

"Probably  because  I'm  suffering."  Rob  squirmed, 
as  he  spoke. 

Instantly  Jack's  eyes  flew  open. 


192  DAY:  HER  YEAR  LV  iVEW  YORK 

"Aching,  old  man?"  he  queried. 

Rob  laughed,  as  he  folded  his  hands  at  the  back 
of  his  head. 

"You're  as  bad  as  all  the  rest  of  them,  though," 
he  objected.  "Still,  you  put  me  here,  and  I  owe  you 
one  for  that." 

"You'd  have  had  to  lie  up  sooner  or  later,  even  if  I 
had  held  my  peace,"  Jack  assured  him. 

"Mayhap.  Still,  you  might  have  given  the  experi- 
ment a  try.  Besides,  you  were  the  first  cause  of  the 
whole  disaster." 

"I?"     Jack  looked  as  blank  as  he  felt. 

"Yes,  you.  It  was  the  night  Phil  rowed  you. 
Day  and  I  stayed  so  long,  discussing  how  to  make 
you  even,  that  I  nearly  broke  my  neck,  getting  down 
to  dinner  in  time." 

But  Jack  protested. 

"Hang  it,  Rob,  can't  you  drop  that  off  on  Phyllis? 
I  didn't  make  the  row." 

"No;  she  made  it,"  Rob  explained  placidly.  "You 
only  made  the  making.  To  be  sure,  if  it  hadn't  been 
you,  it  was  bound  to  be  some  one  else.  I  wonder  how 
the  child  is  getting  on." 

"I  saw  her,  to-night,"  Jack  answered,  as  he  sank 
back  again  into  his  former  luxurious  position,  with 
his  heels  above  the  level  of  his  chin. 

"Where?" 

"In  the  car,  coming  up  town.  She  looked  un- 
usually well,  too.  She  had  fuzzed  up  her  hair,  and 
she  had  some  sort  of  a  soft  thing  at  the  front  of  her 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  193 

neck.  Really,  she  didn't  look  so  bad,"  Jack  made 
lenient  reply. 

"High  praise  for  Phil!     Did  she  say  anything?" 

"Yes."  Jack  laughed.  Then  he  adopted  Phyllis's 
most  nipping  tone.  "I  thank  you,  Mr.  Blanchard; 
but  I  am  not  weary.  I  prefer  to  stand." 

Rob  settled  himself  down  among  his  cushions  and 
crooked  his  well  knee  into  a  comfortable  knot. 

"Phil  all  over,"  he  commented.  "I  wonder, 
though,  she  didn't  get  in  a  word  about  taking  the 
seat  of  an  honest  working  man." 

"Who  is  that?  Phyllis?"  Day  queried  from  the 
threshold. 

Jack's  feet  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  crash.  Rising, 
he  drew  up  a  chair  for  Day;  but  she  shook  her  head 
and,  crossing  the  room,  perched  herself  on  the  couch 
close  to  Rob's  elbow.  With  swift  precision  born  of 
practice,  his  arm  shut  around  her  waist. 

"Sidney  has  just  telephoned  up  here,"  she  said, 
when  she  was  settled  to  her  liking.  "Daddy  an- 
swered, and  she  suggested,  by  way  of  joke,  that  you 
ought  to  have  a  telephone  here  in  the  room.  Daddy 
is  so  taken  with  the  notion  that  he  declares  he'll 
have  one  in,  to-morrow.  But  what  about  Phyllis?" 

"Nothing,  except  she  and  Jack  have  been  passing 
the  time  of  day." 

"Really?    Was  she  polite?" 

"Faultlessly,  as  far  as  words  go."  Jack  laughed  at 
the  memory.  "Her  eyes,  though,  looked  as  if  she'd 
like  to  eat  me  up." 


194  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Do  you  know  what  was  going  to  be  the  trump 
card  of  Sidney's  entertainment?"  Rob  inquired  lazily, 
while  he  beat  a  thoughtful  tattoo  on  Day's  ribs. 

"What?"  she  questioned,  without  troubling  herself 
to  move  from  beneath  his  drumming  fingers. 

"The  watching  Phil  and  Jack  enacting  Peace  on 
Earth." 

Jack  roused  himself  from  the  reverie  into  which  he 
had  fallen.  Jack  was  gaining  the  trick  of  reverie, 
in  these  latter  days.  More  than  ever  since  his  talk 
with  Day,  that  night  before  the  parlour  fire,  he  had 
taken  to  a  habit  of  dreamily  watching  the  brother 
and  sister,  whenever  they  were  together.  Moreover, 
a  certain  amount  of  envy  was  mingled  with  his  dream- 
ing. Now,  however,  he  roused  himself  at  Rob's 
words. 

"I  haven't  any  row  with  Phil,"  he  objected. 

"No;  but  she  has  with  you,  and  it  comes  to  the 
same  thing  in  the  end.  In  her  own  house  and  under 
Sidney's  eye,  she'd  have  been  bound  to  call  a  truce; 
but,  all  the  same,  it  would  have  been  fun  to  watch." 

"More  likely  she  wouldn't  have  appeared  at  all," 
Jack  answered. 

But  Day  interposed. 

"Oh,  yes;  she  would,  on  Christmas  eve  and  all. 
Mr.  Winthrop  would  have  looked  out  for  that." 

Rob  glanced  up  suddenly. 

"Wade?    What  does  he  have  to  do  with  it?" 

"More  than  any  of  us  realize,"  Day  replied 
shrewdly.  "Haven't  you  noticed  what  chums  they 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  195 

are  lately?  And  Phyllis  isn't  nearly  so  cranky  as  she 
was." 

Rob  shook  his  head. 

"I  fail  to  see  it." 

"That's  because  you're  a  boy,"  Day  made  disdain- 
ful answer.  "If  you  were  a  girl,  you'd  know." 

Rob  abandoned  his  drumming,  and  folded  his 
hands  across  his  breast. 

"When  Phil  Stayre  ceases  to  rage,  may  I  be  there 
to  see." 

Turning,  Day  smoothed  down  his  hair  with  a 
mocking  caress. 

"You're  nothing  but  a  bedridden  old  croaker,"  she 
assured  him  then.  "When  you  get  on  your  legs 
again,  you'll  find  out  a  thing  or  two.  In  some  way 
or  other,  Mr.  Winthrop  has  discovered  that  Phyllis 
wears  her  right  sicfe  for  a  lining,  and  now  he  is  trying 
to  pull  it  out  to  show  it  off  to  the  rest  of  us." 

Jack,  however,  capped  her  sentence,  thoughtfully 
and  with  his  eyes  fastened  upon  his  toes. 

"Perhaps  he  is,"  he  observed  trenchantly.  "Still, 
you  must  admit  that  it  sticks  inside  most  outra- 
geously tight." 

Nevertheless,  Day  Argyle  had  been  wiser  than  the 
boys  were  willing  to  confess.  Just  whereupon  she 
based  her  theory  that  Phyllis  was  losing  somewhat  of 
her  thorniness,  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  However, 
the  fact  remained  that,  ever  since  the  night  of  the 
game,  the  night  when  Wade  had  found  her  crying  in 
her  room,  Phyllis  Stayre  had  had  occasional  gentle 


196  DAY:  HER  YEAR  LV  NEW  YORK 

hours.  As  yet,  they  were  intermittent  and  wholly 
impossible  to  predict.  As  yet,  they  were  of  short 
duration  and  followed  by  gusty  tempers  which 
wreaked  themselves  upon  all  the  household,  with  but 
one  exception.  That  exception  was  Wade,  who  not 
only  seemed  to  escape  all  Phyllis's  storms,  but  even 
was  able  to  coax  her  out  of  the  storm  back  into  a 
semblance  of  calm.  No  one,  Wade  himself  least  of 
all,  had  any  notion  that  the  little  box  on  Phyllis's 
table  held  under  lock  and  key,  among  the  relics  all 
girls  keep  as  holy,  a  dozen  withered  shreds  of  pink 
chrysanthemum.  No  one,  least  of  all  Wade,  was 
aware  just  why  it  was  that  Phyllis's  erstwhile  smooth 
locks  now  hung  in  awkward  ringlets  about  her  brow, 
nor  why  that  brow  showed,  every  now  and  then,  a 
great  white  blister  left  by  the  irons  that  baffled  her 
unaccustomed  hands,  nor  why  the  checkered  apron 
vanished  and  the  girl's  stubby  nails  took  on  a  feeble 
polish. 

Once  or  twice,  and  at  long  intervals,  Wade  had  let 
fall  a  word  of  approval;  once  he  had  come  to  the 
rescue  of  his  young  cousin  when  the  younger  children 
had  been  uttering  derisive  comment  upon  Phyllis's 
late-born  vanity  and  its  slight  achievement;  but,  for 
the  most  part,  he  held  his  peace.  In  part,  his  silence 
came  from  ignorance  of  how  the  child  was  hanging  to 
his  lightest  word;  in  part,  it  sprang  from  his  deter- 
mination that  Phyllis  should  work  out  her  own  sal- 
vation in  her  own  way  and  along  her  own  lines. 
Wade  rarely  preached.  As  far  as  Phyllis  was  con- 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  197 

cerned,  he  had  spoken  his  sermon  once  and  for  all. 
He  watched  his  young  cousin  keenly,  however;  and, 
more  often  than  the  others  knew,  he  forestalled  her 
fractiousness  by  a  quiet  word  which  turned  the  tide 
of  thought  into  less  dangerous  channels. 

And  Phyllis  was  no  dunce.  She  saw  it  all,  some- 
times on  the  instant,  sometimes  not  until  long  after- 
wards; and  she  gained  strength  and  courage  from  the 
surety  that  Wade,  for  one,  was  on  her  side.  Unlike 
Sidney,  Phyllis  lacked  self-reliance.  Her  aggressive 
trick  of  pushing  off  her  would-be  friends  had  been  the 
merest  pose;  but,  like  most  poses,  it  had  done  its 
work.  Too  late  to  mend  the  matter,  the  girl  had 
suddenly  wakened  to  find  that  she  stood  alone.  And 
Phyllis  hated  loneliness  above  all  things  else.  Too 
proud  to  ask  for  friends,  she  had  stalked  off  along 
her  way,  apart  from  all  the  others,  had  resigned  her- 
self to  an  endless  future  of  stalking  on  alone.  And 
then,  all  at  once  and  in  spite  of  her  repeated  rebuffs, 
Wade  had  caught  up  with  her,  had  thrown  out  a 
helping  hand  and  now,  steadily  and  surely,  was  drag- 
ging her  back  again  into  the  common  path. 

It  had  all  been  done  very  gently,  and  so  quietly 
that  no  one  else  seemed  to  heed  it.  Now  and  then 
Wade  overtook  her,  as  she  was  starting  out  alone, 
walked  on  beside  her  for  a  block  or  two,  and  left  her 
smiling  at  his  merry  talk.  Now  and  then  of  an  even- 
ing, he  hunted  her  up  in  her  own  room  whither  she 
had  retreated  to  nurse  her  injured  dignity;  now  and 
then  at  the  table  he  turned  to  ask  for  her  opinion,  or 


198      DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

quoted  her  to  the  others.  That  was  really  all;  but, 
in  the  eyes  of  Phyllis,  it  was  much.  At  least,  it 
proved  that  her  personality  counted  for  something 
in  Wade's  eyes.  Phyllis  Stayre  was  curiously  lack- 
ing in  jealousy.  Because  she  wished  to  count  for 
something,  she  had  no  desire  to  stand  first.  Now 
that  Wade  was  ready  to  give  her  an  occasional  half- 
hour,  she  felt  not  the  slightest  wish  to  come  between 
himself  and  Sidney.  Rather,  instead  of  that,  she 
made  a  futile  effort  to  model  herself  on  Sidney's  lines, 
regardless  of  the  fact  that  Sidney's  lines  refused  to  fit 
themselves  to  the  angles  of  her  own  personality. 
Her  logic  was  simple.  Again  and  again  Wade  had 
spoken  of  his  whole-souled  admiration  for  Sidney; 
and  Wade's  opinion,  just  then,  was  Phyllis  Stayre's 
rule  of  life.  To  be  sure,  her  life  wobbled  occasionally 
and  fell  far,  far  away  from  the  rule;  but  she  bravely 
did  her  best  to  hold  it  steady,  and,  when  it  wobbled, 
she  brought  it  back  with  a  jerk.  Wade,  upon  that 
far-off  night,  had  expressed  a  wish  to  be  proud  of  his 
young  cousin;  and  Phyllis,  since  that  time,  had  done 
her  level  best  to  earn  that  pride. 

Seated  before  the  library  fire,  on  Christmas  eve, 
the  girl  was  pondering  the  matter.  Sidney  was  put- 
ting Bungay  into  bed;  the  other  children  were  up- 
stairs, and  the  room  was  very  still.  Nevertheless,  so 
deeply  was  she  lost  in  her  own  meditations  that  she  did 
not  hear  her  cousin's  step,  until  he  paused  beside  her. 

"Counting  your  mercies  and  forgiving  your  ene- 
mies, Phil?"  he  asked  her  gayly. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  199 

"Perhaps,"  she  admitted  rather  reluctantly  for, 
whatever  her  growth  in  grace,  Phyllis  was  never  prone 
to  air  it  before  the  eyes  of  others. 

Wade  drew  up  a  chair  and  settled  himself  beside  her. 

"How  are  you  getting  along?" 

She  laughed  shortly. 

"Too  fast.  I  don't  appear  to  have  any  especial 
mercies." 

"Only  me,"  Wade  interpolated  flippantly,  as  he 
bent  forward  to  pick  up  a  magazine  from  the  table  at 
his  elbow. 

Her  eyes  flashed  into  sudden  fire,  as  she  turned  to 
look  at  him. 

"You  never  spoke  a  truer  word  in  all  your  life, 
Wade  Winthrop!"  she  said  earnestly. 

The  magazine  slid  from  his  knee  to  the  floor,  and 
he  faced  her  in  some  surprise. 

"Why,  Phyllis!" 

"Yes,"  she  made  tempestuous  answer;  "I  couldn't 
live  a  minute,  not  a  single  minute  longer,  without  you, 
Wade." 

"I'm  glad,  Phil.   I  didn't  suppose  I  was  of  any  use." 

"Use!  You  understand  things,  and  never  make 
blunders."  Then  she  repressed  herself,  as  if  ashamed 
of  her  unwonted  outburst.  "Well,  there's  one  huge 
mercy,  as  you  see,"  she  added,  in  a  tone  she  stroye 
hi  vain  to  render  nonchalant.  "It  doesn't  take  long 
to  count  it,  though." 

"And  the  enemies?"  he  reminded  her,  hoping  to 
rouse  her  by  his  teasing  until  she  forgot  the  momen- 


200  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

tary  sadness  which  seemed  to  follow  on  her  swift 
emotion. 

Once  more  he  was  surprised.  This  time,  it  was  to 
see  the  sadness  deepen. 

"Wade,"  she  said,  and,  as  she  spoke,  she  clasped 
her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  despair;  "I  can't  begin 
to  count  them." 

For  a  moment,  he  sat  looking  at  her  keenly.  Then 
he  said,  — 

"Never  mind  the  counting,  Phil,  so  long  as  you 
forgive  them." 

"That's  the  worst  of  it,"  she  answered,  and  her 
voice  broke  on  the  words.  "I've  fought  with  almost 
every  one  I  know.  They  all  hate  me;  but  I  don't 
seem  to  care  much  about  them,  one  way  or  the  other. 
I  don't  want  bad  things  to  happen  to  them;  I  only 
want  them  to  keep  out  of  my  way,  ever  so  far  out  of 
my  way.  Even  Jack  — " 

"What  about  Jack?"  he  prompted  her,  after  the 
pause  had  lengthened. 

It  lengthened  again,  while  she  sat  staring  at  the 
fire.  At  last  she  turned  her  eyes  back  to  Wade. 

"Jack  is  the  worst  of  all,"  she  said  frankly.  "I've 
squabbled  with  Rob  and  Day;  but  they  don't  care, 
and  they  don't  count.  Jack  did  care,  and  so  he 
counts  a  lot.  I  wish  I  liked  him  better." 

"Why  don't  you?"  Wade  asked  unexpectedly. 

The  answer  came  with  a  directness  which  wellnigh 
took  his  breath  away. 

"Two  reasons:  you  all  make  such  a  fuss  over  him 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  201 

that  I'm  sick  of  the  very  sound  of  his  name.  And, 
besides  that,  I've  fought  with  him  till  he  hates  me, 
and  I  don't  like  people  who  hate  me." 

"I  strongly  suspect,"  Wade  seemed  to  be  merely 
thinking  aloud;  "I  strongly  suspect  that,  if  he  liked 
you  after  the  way  you've  treated  him,  you  would  call 
him  a  milksop,  and  dislike  him  accordingly." 

Phyllis  flounced  forward  in  her  chair,  and  sat  with 
both  elbows  on  her  knees. 

"Yes.     I  should,"  she  admitted. 

"Then  he's  bound  to  catch  it,  one  way  or  the 
other.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"That's  what  I  want  to  know,"  Phyllis  said 
shortly.  "I've  been  fussing  about  it,  all  the  even- 
ing. I  hate  fights,  nowadays.  I  didn't  use  to  care, 
and  I  don't  see  why  I  do  now.  Is  it  because  I'm 
getting  old,  Wade?"  She  turned  her  spectacles  upon 
him  gloomily. 

Wade  struggled  bravely  with  his  mirth. 

"It's  more  likely  because  you're  getting  good,"  he 
suggested. 

Phyllis  frowned. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  get  good,"  she  said;  "at 
least,  not  goody  good." 

Privately  Wade  was  of  the  impression  that,  as  yet, 
the  danger  of  such  consummation  was  but  slight. 
With  rare  discretion,  he  changed  the  subject  back  to 
its  starting-point. 

"But  there's  no  especial  sense  in  your  disliking 
Jack,  Phyllis.  He  is  a  good  fellow  in  every  way." 


202  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"That  may  all  be,"  she  retorted,  "with  a  swift  flash 
of  her  old  defiance.  "Still,  if  you  were  in  my  place, 
and  had  let  out  to  him  the  very  peskiest  side  of  your 
whole  self,  you'd  dislike  him  as  much  as  I  do." 

Whatever  might  be  his  own  attitude  to  Jack,  poor 
Wade  was  ready  to  admit  himself  dazed  by  her 
sudden  changes  of  front.  Nevertheless,  he  perse- 
vered hi  driving  home  his  point. 

"Then  what  made  you  show  him  what  you  call 
your  peskiest  side?"  he  asked  gravely. 

"Because  he  deserved  it,  and  because  that's  all 
there  is  of  me.  I'm  nothing  in  the  world  but  a 
bundle  of  peskiness,"  Phyllis  announced,  in  a  wave 
of  complete  contrition. 

"If  you  were,  you  could  get  over  it,"  Wade  reas- 
sured her  calmly.  "As  it  is,  you're  no  such  thing. 
I  must  confess,  though,  Phil,  that  you've  done  your 
best  to  give  Jack  that  impression.  Now,  for  a  change, 
why  don't  you  try  to  show  him  a  bit  of  the  other 
side?" 

"I  haven't  any  other  side,"  Phyllis  persisted 
glumly. 

Wade  laughed. 

"Allow  me  to  be  the  judge,"  he  advised  her.  "Just 
lately,  we've  been  getting  rather  good  friends,  you 
and  I;  and  I  know  you  can  be  a  friend  worth  having. 
Why  not  show  Jack  that  you  can?" 

In  spite  of  herself,  her  face  had  lighted  at  his  words. 
Nevertheless,  — 

"But  I  don't  like  Jack,"  she  objected. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  203 

"What  of  that?" 

"I  don't  care  to  be  friends  with  him.  I  only  don't 
want  to  fight." 

"Phyllis,"  Wade  spoke  with  sudden  gravity; 
"you're  trying  to  stand  on  ground  as  narrow  as  the 
edge  of  a  knife-blade;  in  the  long  run,  it's  bound  to 
cut  your  feet." 

She  watched  him  keenly  and  dry-eyed;  but  she  bit 
her  lip.  This  time,  the  silence  lasted  long. 

"Oh,  dear!  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do,"  she 
lamented  mournfully  at  length. 

Wade  had  not  been  slow  to  follow  her  thoughts. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  determined  that  Phyllis's  im- 
pulses for  good  should  come  from  herself  alone. 

"About?  "he  queried. 

"About  Jack." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose — "  Phyllis  pondered 
for  a  moment,  then  resumed;  "I  suppose  I  could  do 
something  to  show  him  I  was  sorry." 

"Why  don't  you?"  Wade  asked  quietly. 

"I  believe  I  will.  It  would  sort  of  even  things  up, 
and,  at  least,  we  could  start  out  fresh.  Only  -  "  she 
looked  up  with  sudden  suspicion;  "only  I  don't  want 
him  to  think  I'm  toadying  around,  trying  to  make 
him  like  me.  If  I  do  anything  at  all  to  make  up,  he 
must  understand  it's  just  to  make  up  for  what  I've 
done,  not  to  trap  him  into  anything  more." 

Wade  smiled  a  little;  but  Phyllis's  eyes  were  once 
more  on  the  fire,  and  she  did  not  notice  Wade. 


204  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Jack's  not  stupid,"  he  said  then.  "I  think  he 
will  understand." 

Phyllis  nodded  into  the  glowing  coals. 

"He's  got  to,"  she  said.  "I'll  make  sure  of  that." 
Then,  turning,  she  snatched  her  cousin's  hand,  with 
one  of  her  rare  bursts  of  affection.  "Oh,  Wade, 
what  should  I  do  without  you!"  she  exclaimed. 
"You  always  understand." 

But  Wade,  after  she  had  left  him  alone  by  the  fire, 
sighed  a  little  to  himself.  Coming  to  him  all  un- 
sought, it  was  no  slight  responsibility  for  a  man  still 
under  thirty,  this  playing  Mentor  to  a  growing  girl. 

And,  meanwhile,  up  in  her  own  room,  Phyllis  had 
pulled  open  her  top  bureau  drawer  and  stood  looking 
into  it  with  dubious,  regretful  eyes.  There,  among 
the  gifts  she  had  gathered  up  to  put  on  the  next 
night's  tree,  lay  neatly  folded  her  one  token  of  real 
love.  For  a  month  now,  Phyllis  had  toiled  unceas- 
ingly, straining  her  nerves  and  her  near-sighted  eyes 
upon  her  offering  to  Wade.  Finished  at  last  and 
smudgily  laundered  by  her  own  loving  hands,  they 
lay  there  ready,  three  handkerchiefs  whose  hem- 
stitched borders,  irregular,  puckered  here  and  there 
and  grimed  with  toil,  bore  witness  to  her  patient  devo- 
tion. She  had  wanted  to  do  six  of  them;  but  the  days 
had  slipped  by  faster  than  her  needle  could  count  the 
threads  and  prick  in  the  uneven  stitches.  There  were 
but  three,  and  they  all  had  been  for  Wade.  But  now? 

Slowly  one  great,  round  tear  rolled  down  her  nose 
and  fell  on  the  topmost  fold  of  linen.  It  was  all  her 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  205 

work,  and  done,  every  single  stitch,  to  show  her  love 
for  Wade.  But,  after  all,  Wade  knew  her  love;  he 
needed  no  handkerchiefs  to  prove  so  evident  a  fact. 
Irresolutely  she  lifted  one  of  the  squares  of  linen, 
irresolutely  she  dropped  it  and  fell  to  fumbling  among 
the  other  parcels  in  her  drawer,  toys  for  the  children, 
a  ribbon  for  Sidney,  and  her  father's  book.  Then 
she  shook  her  head.  With  Phyllis  Stayre,  it  was  all 
or  nothing.  Her  fingers  shut  again  upon  the  hand- 
kerchief and,  not  trusting  herself  to  hesitate  longer, 
she  pushed  the  drawer  together  and  swiftly  crossed 
to  the  table  where  her  pen  and  ink  lay  ready  to  her 
hand. 

Here  she  hesitated  longer,  dipping  her  pen,  sucking 
it  dry,  biting  the  holder,  then  dipping  it  again.  At 
length  she  gave  a  nod,  short,  sharp,  decisive,  and, 
snatching  up  a  sheet  of  paper,  she  dipped  her  pen 
once  more. 

"Dear  Mr.  Blanchard,"  she  wrote;  "/  wish  you  a 
Merry  Christmas,  and  I'm  sorry  I  was  so  horrid  to  you. 
Your — "  Again  she  hesitated;  then,  "acquaintance, 
Phyllis  Stayre,"  she  added. 

Twice  and  thoughtfully  she  read  it  over  and,  as  she 
read,  her  frown  deepened  and  she  chewed  her  pen- 
holder savagely.  At  last,  she  took  the  penholder 
from  her  lips,  knitted  her  brows  and  wrote  again,  — 

"P.  S.  This  is  just  to  even  up.  Honestly,  that's 
all.  P." 

That  done,  she  went  to  bed. 


206  DAY:  HER  YEAR  AY  XEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

"DOB'S  temporary  retirement  from  active  life 
brought  in  its  train  two  marked  results.  It 
taught  Sidney  Stayre  how  much  she  had  come  to 
depend  upon  the  company  of  the  Argyles,  and  it 
brought  Jack  Blanchard  and  Day  into  a  relation  that 
was  wholly  new.  Up  to  that  time,  Jack  had  been 
distinctively  Rob's  friend.  Day  had  liked  him,  for 
Rob's  sake  as  much  as  for  Jack's  own.  Neverthe- 
less, underneath  all  her  friendly  cordiality  had  lain 
the  fact  that  she  regarded  him  as  an  alien,  and  one 
so  much  older  than  herself  that  they  could  have  but 
little  in  common. 

Their  long  talk  together,  on  the  eve  of  Rob's  taking 
to  his  bed,  had  been  the  first  step  towards  their  closer 
friendship.  Both  were  generous  in  their  judgment 
of  others;  both,  when  at  last  they  had  parted  for  the 
night,  had  been  ready  to  admit  that  their  previous 
judgments  must  be  modified.  To  Jack's  mind,  Day 
had  showed  herself  something  a  good  deal  more  than 
the  pretty  doll  he  had  always  considered  her  to  be. 
Her  swift  rallying  to  Rob's  support,  following  closely 
upon  her  evident  anxiety,  showed  that  her  love  for 
her  brother  was  something  deeper  than  the  matter- 
of-course  affection  too  often  bestowed  on  relatives. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  L\  XEW  YORK  207 

Her  final  yielding  to  his  own  point  of  view  betokened, 
according  to  Jack's  theory,  that  Day's  conscience 
would  be  strong  enough,  when  roused,  to  guide  her 
love. 

And  Day,  in  spite  of  all  that  it  entailed,  had  liked 
Jack's  viewpoint  immensely.  To  be  sure,  it  had  been 
horrible,  this  thrusting  her  brother  into  a  corner  out 
of  all  the  holiday  fun.  Alone  in  her  room,  that 
night,  Day  had  made  secret  lamentation.  Never- 
theless, she  could  not  but  admire  Jack's  sturdy  sense 
of  right  and  wrong. 

"It  was  the  fellow  who  took  best  care  of  his  feet 
who  came  in  the  fittest  from  the  next  day's  march," 
he  had  told  her,  with  a  smile. 

"Yes,"  she  had  assented.  "I  can  see  it  would  be 
better." 

But  he  had  turned  upon  her  with  swift  impatience. 

"It's  not  the  being  better;  it's  just  a  plain  case  of 
duty,"  he  had  said.  "We're  put  into  our  road  and 
given  our  feet.  It's  our  place,  then,  to  keep  our- 
selves fit  to  march,  not  hobble." 

And  Day,  staring  up  into  his  level  eyes,  had  sud- 
denly realized  that  Jack  Blanchard's  life  matched  his 
belief,  realized,  too,  that  Jack  Blanchard  was  capable 
of  doing  the  one  thing  harder  than  fitting  his  life  to 
his  belief,  the  fitting  to  his  belief  another  We  than  his. 
Up  to  that  hour,  Day  had  never  heard  him  preach. 
It  was  plain  that  he  did  it  with  difficulty  now.  Day 
was  broad  enough  to  admit  that  it  was  conscience 
alone  which  made  him  overcome  that  difficulty.  For 


208  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

the  hour,  she  admired  Jack  unreservedly.  Neverthe- 
less, it  was  dreary  enough  to  miss  Rob  from  the 
familiar  rooms. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  her  admiration  for  Jack 
warmed  and  quickened.  Of  necessity,  they  were 
thrown  more  together,  at  their  meals  and  in  the  inter- 
vals of  their  visits  in  Rob's  room.  Heretofore,  they 
had  talked  to  each  other  mostly  by  way  of  Rob  whose 
very  exuberance  generally  made  him  the  leader  of  the 
conversation.  Now,  lacking  his  lead,  lacking,  too, 
his  exuberant  mirth,  they  talked  more  earnestly, 
each  showing  to  the  other  glimpses  of  the  deeper 
nature  which,  up  to  now,  had  been  hidden  beneath 
the  froth  of  fun.  At  first  they  talked  mainly  of  Rob, 
of  the  probable  length  of  his  exile,  of  the  gap  he  was 
making  in  all  their  pleasures.  Then,  by  degrees,  the 
talk  wandered  off,  until  Jack  found  himself  telling 
Day  of  his  past  life,  of  his  changed  plans  and  of  the 
mother  whom  he  mentioned  only  with  lowered  voice 
and  reverent  eyes.  And  Day  listened  and  made 
grave  comment.  Then,  in  return,  she  told  him  of 
her  school,  her  friends,  asked  his  advice  about  her 
hobbies,  and  even  told  him  of  the  dreams  which  hung 
about  her  future  when  Rob  and  she,  their  education 
done,  should  wander  around  the  world  together,  meet- 
ing all  men,  but  rinding  their  best  content  each  in  the 
company  of  the  other. 

And  then  at  such  times,  while  he  listened,  a  little 
cloud  came  into  Jack's  keen  eyes.  It  was  all  like  a 
lovely  story  in  which  he  could  have  no  share.  Be- 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  209 

lieving  it  all  implicitly,  it  only  increased  his  sense  of 
belonging  to  no  one  save  his  mother,  and  she  was  old 
and  far  away. 

However,  this  was  at  first.  As  the  days  stole  by, 
Jack  became  conscious  of  a  new  sweetness  that 
marked  Day's  manner  to  him.  No  more  cordial  and 
friendly  than  before,  she  was  yet  gentler,  more  heed- 
ful of  his  mood,  more  careful  for  his  content.  It  was 
as  if,  little  by  little,  she  were  allowing  him  to  tread 
upon  the  edge  of  the  place  where  Rob  had  stood 
alone,  allowing  him  there  and  even  welcoming  him. 
There  was  no  trace  of  sentiment  in  her  manner,  no 
touch  of  girlish  coquetry.  She  merely  made  him  feel 
that,  in  some  mysterious  fashion  for  which  they 
neither  one  could  account,  he  had  grown  to  be  a  part 
of  her  life,  and  she  was  glad  to  have  it  so. 

Only  once,  however,  had  she  put  this  new  mood 
into  words.  Early  on  Christmas  morning,  he  had 
gone  into  Rob's  room,  and  he  had  found  Day  already 
there,  curled  up  in  her  accustomed  place  within  the 
curve  of  her  brother's  elbow.  At  Jack's  coming,  she 
had  sprung  up  with  a  little  glad  exclamation,  and 
crossed  the  floor,  both  hands  held  out  in  greeting. 

"Oh,  Jack!  Merry  Christmas,  and  such  thanks!" 
And  then,  cutting  short  his  gay  reply,  she  had  added, 
"And  it  is  so  good  to  have  you  here  with  us.  I'm 
richer  than  I  was,  you  know,  for  now  I  feel  as  if 
Santa  Claus  had  given  me  an  extra  brother."  And, 
her  arm  in  his,  she  came  back  to  Rob's  side. 

Sidney,  in  the  meantime,  a  good  deal  to  her  own 


210  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

disgust,  was  missing  the  Argyles  acutely.  Rob,  shut 
up  in  his  room,  was  debarred  from  receiving  calls. 
Day,  wholly  absorbed  in  him  and  in  their  united  inter- 
ests which  never  became  half  so  insistent  as  when 
Rob's  other  activities  were  curtailed,  was  wellnigh 
invisible.  Upon  the  rare  occasions  when  she  did 
emerge,  it  was  to  go  for  a  long  walk  or  drive  with 
Jack  Blanchard  whom  Rob  had  deputed  to  act  as 
escort  in  his  place.  Jack's  office  hours,  in  those 
winter  days,  were  framed  upon  a  most  elastic  sched- 
ule. Mr.  Argyle  himself  was  out  of  town,  gone  west 
upon  a  business  trip  which  yet  demanded  nothing  of 
his  secretary.  In  his  absence,  Jack's  duties  were  cut 
down  to  the  lowest  terms,  and  Mr.  Argyle's  parting 
charge  had  laid  upon  him  the  care  of  Day. 

"The  child  sticks  to  Rob  like  a  burr,  when  he's 
ill,"  he  had  told  his  secretary,  the  night  before  start- 
ing for  the  West.  "I  count  on  you  to  see  to  it  that 
she  goes  out,  every  single  day.  If  she  rebels,  tell  her 
it's  my  order.  You  know  how  to  handle  a  horse  and 
to  ride.  Keep  her  out  of  doors  all  you  can.  It  won't 
hurt  either  of  you,  you  know." 

And  Rob  had  come  to  his  father's  support  in  such 
energetic  fashion  that  Day  bowed  to  the  inevitable 
and  to  their  combined  wills,  and,  in  sunshine  and  in 
storm,  went  faring  forth  with  Jack  Blanchard  at  her 
side.  Together  they  explored  the  city,  wandering  at 
will  among  the  down-town  streets,  or  driving  far  to 
the  northward,  until  Jack  learned  to  know  the  place 
as  well  as  Day  herself.  Now  and  then  they  crossed 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  211 

to  Brooklyn,  or  else,  standing  in  the  bow  of  the 
Annex  boat  with  the  bitter  wind  whistling  in  their 
ears,  they  rounded  the  point  of  the  island,  while  Jack 
told  over  again  for  the  twentieth  time  of  the  one 
night  of  ice  and  storm  when,  with  Rob  beside  him, 
he  had  crossed  the  Levis  ferry.  They  came  in  from 
these  expeditions,  their  lungs  and  their  minds  filled 
with  ozone,  bringing  back  to  Rob  more  than  a  passing 
whiff  of  the  bracing  outside  air. 

And  Sidney,  meanwhile,  called  in  their  absence, 
called  and  called  again.  Then  wisely  she  resolved  to 
save  her  temper  and  her  carfares.  Just  now,  there 
seemed  for  her  no  place  within  the  Argyle  plans. 
With  characteristic  philosophy,  she  accepted  the  situ- 
ation and  admitted  its  justice.  Under  the  same  con- 
ditions and  with  a  brother  such  as  Rob,  she  would 
have  been  as  much  absorbed  as  Day  was  now.  Ac- 
cordingly, she  shut  her  teeth  and,  for  the  time  being, 
turned  her  back  upon  the  Madison  Avenue  house. 
With  the  busy  holiday  season  at  hand,  she  could  find 
occupation  and  interest  enough  inside  her  own  four 
walls,  or  among  the  comrades  of  her  school  life.  The 
Argyles,  after  all,  were  the  newest  of  her  friends,  and 
hence  the  least  necessary  of  all.  Six  months  before, 
she  had  been  quite  content  without  them.  Late  one 
night,  she  reasoned  it  all  out  to  her  own  satisfaction. 
She  fell  asleep  at  last,  hugging  her  resolve  to  enjoy 
herself  entirely  among  her  own  old  friends.  Twenty- 
four  hours  later,  she  was  ready  to  throw  her  resolve 
as  far  from  her  as  possible.  Not  all  the  lusty,  inde- 


212  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

pendent  resolution  in  the  world  could  make  her  own 
old  friends  fill  the  place  so  lately  held  by  Rob  and 
Day.  Sidney  admitted  the  fact  to  herself  with  a  cer- 
tain horror.  Was  it  in  reality  Rob  and  Day  she 
longed  for  so  acutely;  or  was  it  the  whole  luxurious 
setting  of  the  Argyle  home?  Like  a  stern  young 
Puritan,  she  spent  a  good  half  of  the  second  night 
in  arguing  it  all  out  again,  and  she  came  to  the  hu- 
miliating conclusion  that  it  was  not  the  Argyles, 
but  the  Argyle  fleshpots,  for  which  she  was  probably 
mourning. 

The  next  day  proved  her  mistake.  Amy  Browne, 
likewise  forlorn  by  reason  of  being  bereft  of  Day, 
swept  down  on  Sidney  and  took  her  first  to  drive  and 
then  home  to  luncheon.  The  Brownes  possessed  an 
English  butler  and  a  sixteenth-century  dining  table. 
There  were  three  old  masters  on  the  parlour  walls, 
and  a  white-capped  French  cook  in  the  kitchen. 
Amy  had  been  all  cordial  smiles.  Nevertheless,  Sid- 
ney had  gone  home,  more  homesick  for  the  Argyles 
than  ever.  To  cap  the  climax  of  her  woes,  she  went 
home  to  find  that  Wade,  in  celebration  of  one  of  his 
rare  half-holidays,  had  taken  Phyllis  to  the  Hippo- 
drome. Alone  in  her  room,  she  sat  down  to  consider 
the  situation;  but  Bungay,  a  loyal  little  tail  to  a 
despondent  kite,  followed  her  up  the  stairs  and  in- 
sisted that  he  be  considered  first. 

"After  all,  Bungay  boy,"  Sidney  observed,  as  she 
hoisted  the  heavy  child  to  her  knee;  "there's  no  espe- 
cial sense  in  getting  in  the  dumps.  Just  now  my 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  213 

places  are  all  full,  and  I  don't  seem  to  be  of  much  use. 
Still,  I  suppose  I'll  get  my  chance,  some  time  or  other. 
Meanwhile,  let's  go  and  take  a  walk." 

And  Bungay,  nothing  loath,  assented  and  dashed 
away  in  search  of  his  coat  and  cap,  while  Sidney 
shook  herself  to  drive  away  the  blues.  She  was  un- 
mistakably lonesome,  now  that  Rob  was  ill  and  Day 
and  Wade  both  occupied  with  some  one  else.  Never- 
theless, in  Day's  place,  she  would  have  stuck  close  to 
Rob's  elbow;  and,  watching  Phyllis,  she  could  not 
find  it  hi  her  heart  to  grudge  Wade's  occasional  deser- 
tion of  herself  in  favour  of  her  younger  sister.  As  far 
as  Wade  was  concerned,  Sidney  felt  sure  there  was 
no  room  for  doubt.  Standing  first  herself,  she  was 
willing  that  Phyllis  should  hold  the  second  place,  if 
only  for  the  sake  of  all  the  new-found  happiness  was 
doing  for  the  child.  Wade  had  kept  his  own  counsel, 
to  be  sure;  but  Sidney's  eyes  were  keen. 

Up  in  the  Park,  she  hunted  out  a  secluded  corner 
where,  careless  who  saw  her,  she  could  run  races  with 
Bungay,  or  pelt  him  with  snowballs,  as  best  suited 
his  changing  whim.  The  crispy  winter  air,  the  exer- 
cise and  Bungay's  gleeful  chatter  were  fast  restoring 
the  girl  to  her  wonted  mood  of  optimism,  while  the 
cold  wind  had  set  her  cheeks  to  tingling  and  lighted 
her  brown  eyes  to  dancing  stars.  So  absorbed  was 
she  in  the  antics  of  her  small  brother  that  she  took 
no  notice  of  the  carriage  drawn  up  at  the  entrance  of 
the  path,  nor  did  she  hear  her  name  spoken  once  and 
yet  again. 


214  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"No  matter,  she  will  see  us  in  a  minute,"  Day  said 
then,  as  she  leaned  back  among  the  robes. 

And  Jack  nodded  assent.  For  the  minute,  it  was 
good  to  sit  there  in  the  sun  and  watch  the  girlish 
figure  in  the  dark  brown  gown  and  furs,  to  see  the 
swift,  free  gestures,  the  lithe  step,  the  laughing  face. 

Suddenly  Bungay  turned. 

"There's  Sambo's  master!"  he  proclaimed,  with  a 
whoop  of  rapture,  and  went  scudding  down  the  path 
to  the  carriage. 

"You've  a  memory  and  a  half,  young  man,"  Jack 
said,  as  he  helped  the  child  to  clamber  to  the  front  seat. 

"That's  three  halves,  or  more  than  one,  and  aren't 
you  going  to  take  us  to  ride?"  Bungay  made  prompt 
response. 

Sidney,  following  him  in  more  leisurely  fashion, 
came  up  in  time  to  hear  his  final  words. 

"Bungay!"  she  said  warningly. 

Bungay  squirmed  down  from  the  seat  and  stood  at 
attention. 

"That's  what  horses  is  for,"  he  explained.  "When 
I'm  a  man,  I'll  have  ninety-'leven  horses,  and  take 
everybody  I  know  to  ride." 

Day  laughed. 

"All  right.  We'll  all  go.  But  I  was  looking  for 
you.  They  told  me  at  the  house  that  we'd  find  you 
here.  We  want  you  to  come  with  us.  This  is  the 
first  time  Jack  has  driven  two  horses,  and  I  need  you 
to  support  my  courage." 

Sidney  hesitated. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  215 

"I'd  love  to  go;  but  —  what  about  Bungay?" 

But  Bungay  had  already  wriggled  back  on  the  seat 
and,  his  elbow  in  Jack's  ribs,  was  prying  himself  to 
position. 

"Come  on,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "We'll  all  go,  and 
I  can  drive  and  then,  if  we  get  smashed  up,  we'll  come 
home  in  the  p'leece  wagon  with  the  red  cross  on  the 
end." 

"A  nice  prediction!"  Jack  commented  dryly.  "I 
think  I'll  keep  the  reins  in  my  own  hands.  But  what 
were  you  doing  in  the  Park,  Bungay?" 

And  Bungay  made  unhesitating  answer,  — 

"Getting  Sidney  out  of  the  dumpsj  and  playing 
squat  tag  in  the  snow." 

Over  Bungay's  rapturous  head,  Jack  cast  at  Sidney 
a  glance  of  merry  question. 

"I  didn't  know  you  ever  did  such  things,  Miss 
Sidney." 

Sidney  blushed,  while  she  registered  a  mental  vow 
to  take  it  out  on  Bungay  at  the  earliest  possible 
moment.  Nevertheless,  she  made  demure  answer,  — 

"Certainly.  I  know  seven  sorts  of  tag,  and  I  play 
them  all  with  Bungay,  whenever  I  get  the  chance." 

"At  once?    But  I  meant  the  dumps." 

"Oh."  Sidney's  tone  was  nonchalant.  "It's  a 
patent  of  respectability  to  have  them.  It  proves  you 
have  a  soul." 

"  Or  a  digestion,"  Day  suggested  prosaically.  "It's 
generally  that,  I  think.  What  had  you  eaten,  Sid- 
ney?" ' 


216  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Sidney's  eyes  twinkled.  Then  she  burst  into  an 
irrepressible  laugh. 

"Luncheon  at  Amy's  house,  if  you  must  know. 
I  suspect  it  disagreed  with  me  in  more  ways  than 
one." 

Again  over  Bungay's  unconscious  head,  Jack  sent 
her  a  quick  glance  of  understanding,  while  Day  was 
making  thoughtful  answer,  — 

"I  really  can't  see  why  you  don't  like  Amy  better." 

"  Chiefly  because  she  isn't  you." 

Day  frowned. 

"I'm  not  fishing.    That's  not  what  I  mean." 

"But  it's  what  I  do  mean,  Day,"  Sidney  replied, 
while,  under  cover  of  the  fur  rug,  she  nestled  a  bit 
closer  to  her  friend.  "I  feel  at  home  with  you;  I 
don't  with  her." 

"And  yet  Amy  is  nice  to  you,"  Day  pursued 
thoughtfully. 

"That's  just  the  trouble;  she  is  too  nice." 

"She  isn't  to  everybody,  though."  Day's  tone 
was  defensive. 

"That's  just  another  trouble.  There's  no  reason 
she  should  treat  me  better  than  anybody  else." 

In  the  innermost  recesses  of  his  brain,  Jack  Blanch- 
ard  disagreed  with  her.  Nevertheless,  he  judged  it 
well  to  break  in  upon  Day's  answer. 

"Rob  is  down-stairs  again,  to-day,"  he  said,  inter- 
rupting Bungay's  disquisition  upon  the  number  of 
snakes  that  could  be  made  from  the  tails  before  him. 

"Really?"    Sidney  sat  up  alertly.    "He's  better, 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  217 

then?  It  seems  such  ages  since  he  was  in  his  room. 
How  soon  will  he  be  out?" 

"Another  week.  The  doctor  says  he  will  be  all  the 
better  for  the  rest,  though." 

"After  all,"  Day's  voice  was  suddenly  dreary;  "it 
does  seem  as  if  he  never  would  be  really  well.  He 
gains  so  fast  for  ever  so  long,  and  then,  all  at  once, 
something  goes  wrong  and  puts  him  back  to  the  very 
beginning  once  more.  I'd  give  anything  in  this  whole 
world  to  see  him  strong  again." 

Jack's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  distant  curve  where 
the  drive  lost  itself  from  sight  beneath  the  trees,  and 
he  spoke  thoughtfully. 

"It's  no  use,  Day.  All  the  giving  in  the  world 
won't  do  it.  We  can  only  sit  around  and  watch  the 
poor  chap  wait  for  his  own  good  tunes  to  come  again. 
Nobody  can  make  the  next  man's  bed." 

But  Sidney  interposed. 

"No;  but  he  can  smooth  out  some  of  the  wrinkles 
for  him." 

Jack  shook  his  head. 

"I've  never  had  much  experience  in  lying  up,  only 
that  one  time  in  South  Africa.  Still,  I've  a  notion 
that,  if  you  put  your  mind  to  it,  you  can  take  some 
comfort  out  of  a  wrinkle.  It  keeps  you  from  fussing 
about  other  things  that  are  really  worse." 

But  already  Day  had  regained  her  usual  blithe  poise. 

"Jack,"  she  reminded  him  audaciously;  "you  ate 
luncheon  at  home,  not  with  Amy.  Please  behave 
yourself  accordingly." 


218  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"We  had  preserves  for  luncheon,  and  I  didn't  get 
but  only  one  help,"  Bungay  observed.  "I'm  awful 
hungry,  and  I  guess  we'd  better  be  going  home  before 
long." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  Day  suggested  suddenly.  "Let's 
give  Rob  a  surprise  party.  We'll  leave  Bungay  at 
the  door,  and  then  take  Sidney  home  with  us." 

"But  Rob  loves  to  see  me,  when  I  come,"  Bungay 
made  sentimental  soliloquy.  "I  think  I'd  better 
stay  with  Sidney.  My  mother  always  did  tell  me 
to  stay  with  Sidney,  ever  since  the  day  I  went  to 
Brooklyn." 

Jack  laughed. 

"I  owe  you  one  for  that,  young  man." 

Pulling  off  his  scarlet  mitten,  Bungay  spread  out 
one  moist  pink  palm. 

"All  right,"  he  said  hopefully.  "Please  pay  it  in 
silver,  though,  and  then  I'll  change  it  up  small,  the 
way  I  do  my  Sunday-school  money." 

"Bungay!"  This  tune,  Sidney  spoke  with  obvious 
consternation. 

"Well,  why  not?  They  ask  us  for  our  pennies,  and 
my  father  always  gives  me  a  five  cents,"  Bungay 
explained,  with  a  fervour  which  brought  him  to  his 
knees  on  the  seat.  "What's  the  use  of  giving  them 
things  they  don't  want?" 

"Exactly."  With  a  deft  gesture,  Jack  caught  the 
child  as  he  was  about  to  tumble  headlong  to  the 
ground.  "That's  the  way  we  feel  about  Rob.  We 
asked  for  Sidney,  and  we  don't  see  any  use  in  giving 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  219 

him  you.  Therefore  we  leave  you  at  the  door  of 
your  house,  and  in  you  go." 

And  Bungay,  starting  to  roar  forth  his  opposi- 
tion, looked  up  into  the  level  eyes  above  him  and 
met  something  there  which  bade  him  hold  his  peace. 
Jack  Blanchard  had  learned,  years  ago,  the  soldier's 
lesson,  to  obey.  The  time  would  come,  however, 
that  he  would  pass  that  lesson  on  to  others  and  they 
would  heed  his  teaching. 

It  was  late,  that  evening,  when  Sidney  rose  reluc- 
tantly from  before  the  fire  in  the  Argyle  library.  Even 
then,  late  as  it  was,  Rob  felt  called  on  to  remonstrate; 
but  Sidney  shook  her  head. 

"Because  it's  seventeen  days  since  I've  seen  you, 
there's  no  reason  I  should  stay  seventeen  times  the 
outside  limit  of  decorum,"  she  protested,  laughing. 

"Seventeen!  It  seems  like  seventy,  and  there 
aren't  any  limits  to  decorum,  anyhow.  Sit  down 
again,  like  a  good  soul." 

"Can't.  My  family  will  be  wailing  for  my  return. 
Oh,  but  it's  been  good  to  see  you,  Rob,  even  if  you 
don't  get  up  to  escort  me  to  the  door!  When  are  you 
coming  to  return  this  visit?" 

"When  I  get  so  far  recovered  that  I  don't  walk 
like  a  trundle  bed,"  Rob  answered  calmly.  "Mean- 
while, you'll  come  again?" 

"Of  course,  if  you  want  me  to." 

"We  try  to  accept  whatever  comes,  you  know,  even 
our  guests.  And  I  say,  Sidney,"  Rob  called  after 
her,  as  she  went  out  the  door;  "next  time,  you'd  best 


220  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

bring  Phil.  I'm  getting  cloyed  with  sweets,  these 
days,  and  I  think  a  row  with  her  would  clear  the 
atmosphere." 

Sidney  reappeared  upon  the  threshold. 

"Unless  the  lightning  struck  too  hard,"  she 
amended  promptly. 

''Like  Jack?  You  heard  about  his  Christmas 
offering?" 

"No.     Phyllis  didn't  show  me  any." 

Rob  laughed.  Stretched  out  at  his  ease  on  the 
leather  couch,  he  looked  supremely  lazy,  supremely 
happy,  supremely  full  of  mirth.  Sidney,  standing 
by  his  side  and  smiling  down  into  his  jolly  blue  eyes, 
found  it  hard  to  realize  that  this  was  the  invalid 
whose  absence,  only  a  few  short  hours  ago,  she  had 
been  mourning  with  such  despondency. 

"What  about  Jack?"  she  demanded,  as  Rob  still 
held  his  peace.  "Did  he  send  Phyllis  a  Christmas 
present,  and  she  not  say  a  word  about  it?" 

"Not  much.     It  was  the  other  way  about." 

"  What ! "  Sidney's  face  betrayed  her  astonishment. 
"Phyllis  sent  Jack  something?" 

"  Exactly  so.  She  sent  him  a  bee-youtiful  handker- 
chief. Day  says  she  must  have  made  it,  herself." 

Sidney  nodded  in  confirmation  of  Day's  theory. 

"She  did  make  some  for  Wade." 

"Poor  Wade!  Right  there  in  the  house,  he's  cor- 
nered into  using  them,"  Rob  made  pitiful  comment. 
"Phil  isn't  exactly  tidy  with  her  needle." 

"Yes;  but,  after  all,  she  is  a  little  thing  to  do  such 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  221 

work/'  Sidney  answered,  with  a  swift  generosity 
which  Rob  noted  and  liked,  as  something  unfamiliar 
in  her  attitude  to  Phyllis. 

"Jack  was  pleased,"  he  said;  "no  end  pleased. 
There  was  a  note  with  it,  something  about  being 
sorry  and  all  that." 

"Why,  the  dear  child!"  This  time,  Sidney  spoke 
impetuously,  heedless  of  Rob's  laugh. 

"Wait  a  jiffy,  till  you  hear  the  rest,  though.  Jack 
was  charmed  and,  next  day  when  he  met  Phil  in  the 
street,  he  stopped  and  told  her  so." 

"Well?"  Sidney  urged  him, as  he  paused  to  chuckle. 

"It  wasn't  well;  'twas  ill.  Likewise,  it  made  him 
ill.  He  smiled  at  her,  and  she  smiled  at  him,  a 
regular  Phyllis  smile,  and  said,  'You  needn't  think 
I  did  it  because  I  like  you  any  better  than  I  ever 
did,  for  I  don't.  I  was  only  ashamed  about  myself; 
that's  all.'  We've  been  teasing  Jack  about  it,  ever 
since." 

"What  does  he  say?"  Sidney  asked,  in  mingled 
shame  and  mirth. 

"Says  it  is  no  wonder  you  aren't  more  conceited, 
with  Phyllis  living  in  the  house.  Give  the  dear  child 
my  love,  and  tell  her  to  come  to  see  me  soon.  I've 
been  spoiling  to  tell  you  this  tale;  I  knew  you  would 
appreciate  it,  and  Day  promised  to  leave  it  for  me." 

"Rob,"  Sidney's  tone  was  almost  tragic;  "what 
would  you  do  with  such  a  sister?" 

"Build  her  a  halo  and  some  wings,  and  stump  her 
to  grow  up  to  them,"  Rob  made  placid  reply.  "That 


222  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

is  the  only  way  to  get  around  Phil,  to  make  her  take 
a  dare." 

Out  in  the  hall,  Sidney  found  Jack  waiting  to  take 
her  home.  As  they  went  down  the  steps  together, 
she  turned  to  him  impulsively. 

"Rob  has  been  telling  me  about  your  Christmas 
gift,"  she  said.  "What  can  you  think  of  my  small 
sister?" 

He  laughed;  but,  by  the  flaring  corner  light,  she 
could  see  that  his  eyes  were  grave. 

"We'll  be  friends  yet,"  he  predicted.  "Only  give 
me  time." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  /AT  NEW  YORK  223 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

"O ASTER,  far  faster  than  Day  Argyle  could  wish  or 
-*-  realize,  the  winter  weeks  rushed  past  her,  and 
March  came  upon  the  city,  windy  and  bright  and 
bracing.  February  had  been  a  month  of  cloud  and 
snow;  but  now  the  white  asphalt  streets  gleamed 
cleanly  up  at  the  deep  blue  sky,  and  the  many  win- 
dows of  the  lofty  down-town  buildings  sent  the  sun- 
light flashing  back  in  long,  bright  rays  which  started 
from  their  polished  surfaces  to  cross  and  cross  again 
in  checkered  bands  of  flame  athwart  the  crispy  air. 
Down  the  harbour,  the  waves  sparkled  in  golden 
crests  which  rose  above  the  dark  blue  water,  or  shone 
hi  patches  and  long  lines  of  cream  white  foam  behind 
the  dancing  ferries.  The  very  air  itself  was  glittering, 
and  the  great  city  glittered  with  it. 

To  Day's  young  mind,  the  winter  hours  were  glitter- 
ing like  the  city.  Gladly  she  would  have  caught 
each  one  and  held  it  back  a  little,  before  it  passed 
her.  Rob's  temporary  invalidism  had  been  the  one 
dark  spot  upon  her  content,  and  that  long  since  had 
become  a  distant  memory,  leaving  him  none  the 
worse  for  the  experience.  For  the  rest,  Day  could 
find  no  fault  with  what  the  year  was  giving  her.  Now 
and  then,  she  even  paused  while  she  tried  to  count 


224  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

her  mercies;  but  she  usually  stopped  short,  balked 
by  a  wholly  inadequate  number  of  fingers  on  which  to 
keep  the  score.  Rob  always  headed  the  list,  and,  as 
the  weeks  rushed  by,  Jack  slowly  crept  from  the  little 
finger  towards  the  thumb.  Jack  was  a  comfort,  Day 
admitted  to  herself.  As  free  from  moods  as  Rob, 
he  was  graver  by  weight  of  years  and  of  his  busy  life; 
and,  by  reason  of  his  very  gravity,  she  found  herself 
more  and  more  inclining  to  turn  to  him  in  her  own 
graver  moods.  Rob  would  be  always  Rob,  and  first. 
But,  when  his  other  friends  claimed  him  for  occasional 
days,  it  was  good  to  find  Jack  waiting,  steady  and 
strong,  to  take  his  place. 

Day's  winter,  however,  like  that  of  Rob  and  of 
Sidney  Stayre,  was  holding  its  own  due  share  of  hard 
work.  As  a  rule,  it  is  impossible  to  drift  lazily  into 
college;  there  are  equations  to  be  solved,  and  con- 
jugations to  be  learned  and  themes  to  be  written 
and,  alas,  rewritten.  No  amount  of  young  enthusi- 
asm can  turn  this  into  anything  but  drudgery;  but 
Day  drudged  with  a  will,  determined  that  she  would 
yield  first  honours  neither  to  Rob  because  he  was  a 
boy,  nor  to  Sidney  by  reason  of  her  extra  year  of  age. 
Far  back  in  Day's  remote  past,  the  fiat  had  gone 
forth  that  she  must  go  through  college.  Later,  she 
could  amuse  herself  as  she  chose;  but  Mr.  Argyle 
refused  all  notion  of  having  a  daughter  who  was  play- 
thing for  the  parlour  rather  than  a  comrade  for  the 
library.  Day  had  accepted  the  fiat  when  she  was 
too  young  to  recognize  what  it  entailed,  and,  as  years 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  225 

brought  recognition  to  her,  she  had  felt  no  desire  to 
withdraw  from  its  hold.  Her  one  regret  had  lain  in 
the  fact  that  Rob  would  be  ready,  two  years  before 
her  own  preparation  was  ended.  Now  that  his 
accident  had  delayed  his  work,  she  was  looking  for- 
ward to  a  wholly  joyous  four  years  of  their  sharing 
the  same  interests,  of  their  taking  the  same  courses, 
and  of  his  spending  an  infinite  number  of  Sundays 
as  her  guest. 

And  yet,  Cambridge  was  many  miles  from  North- 
ampton; the  Sundays  would  be  separated  by  many 
and  many  a  week  day.  After  all,  the  present  year 
was  best  of  all,  and  Day  clung  to  it  greedily.  As  a 
rule,  the  present  and  the  future  occupied  her  whole 
attention.  Now  and  then,  though,  usually  upon 
some  evening  when  Rob's  outside  friends  were  ab- 
sorbing him,  Day's  mind  rushed  backward  into  the 
past,  with  a  passionate  regret  for  those  wasted  middle 
years  when  she  had  gone  her  way  and  left  Rob  to  go  on 
his.  For  not  always  had  the  brother  and  sister  suf- 
ficed each  for  the  other's  needs.  In  their  growing 
youth,  there  had  been  a  time  when  chance  and  cir- 
cumstance had  forced  them  out  of  their  childish 
intimacy  and  into  something  very  like  indifference. 
Even  now  Day  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  what 
her  life  would  have  lacked,  had  not  chance  intervened 
for  the  second  time  and  brought  them  once  more 
together.  If  Rob  had  remained  in  Exeter,  if  Day 
had  yielded  to  the  increasing  claims  of  her  own  young 
gayeties,  the  mischief  might  have  been  done  past  all 


226  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

mending.  Instead  of  that,  their  months  together 
in  the  quiet  little  Canadian  city  had  knit  once  more 
the  half-severed  connection,  until  it  was  as  strong 
as  ever  and  more  precious  because  it  had  been  so 
nearly  torn  away.  But  Day,  when  Rob  was  out  of 
sight  and  hearing  and  she  could  forget  his  stiffened 
leg,  was  entirely  thankful  for  the  scrimmage  which 
had  ended  his  school  life.  He  had  suffered  from  it 
long  and  bitterly.  However,  she  was  loyal  enough 
to  their  mutual  love  to  know  that,  questioned,  Rob 
would  have  been  the  first  to  admit  that  the  hurt  had 
been  well  worth  the  while,  for  the  sake  of  all  it  had 
brought  him  in  its  train. 

Meanwhile,  Day's  winter  had  been  by  no  means 
summed  up  in  lessons  and  in  Rob.  Society  in  its 
fullest  sense  may  be  denied  to  a  girl  of  sixteen,  yet 
she  contrives  to  get  a  fair  substitute.  Day  went 
weekly  to  her  dancing  class;  she  messed  with  diligence 
at  a  cooking  school  which  specialized  in  teaching  girls 
to  keep  house  out  of  a  chafing  dish  and  a  pint  tin  cup. 
She  lunched  industriously  from  house  to  house  among 
her  friends,  until  she  revolted  from  the  routine  of 
following  up  a  moving  boarding  house  where  the 
same  people  ate  the  same  chops  and  peas,  three  days 
out  of  every  seven.  There  were  little  evening  parties, 
too,  to  which  she  went,  sometimes  alone,  sometimes 
with  Rob  as  escort,  though  he  rebelled  occasionally 
at  the  monotony  of  sitting  in  a  corner  and  watching 
the  others  dance.  Once  and  once  only,  Jack  Blanch- 
ard  was  invited  to  go  with  them,  for  Amy's  con- 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  227 

science  was  still  a  little  sore  whenever  she  remembered 
that  far-off  night  at  Heather leigh,  and  she  took 
advantage  of  one  large  party  to  include  Jack  among 
her  other  guests.  Jack  went,  and  danced,  and 
looked  his  very  best.  Nevertheless,  he  was  con- 
scious of  being  a  complete  misfit.  His  soldierly 
carriage  and  his  greater  number  of  years  made  him 
stand  out,  marked,  in  the  crowd  of  gay  youngsters 
who,  for  the  most  part,  had  grown  up  together  from 
their  babyhood.  Three  times  he  danced  with  Day, 
once  for  himself  and  twice  for  Rob,  he  assured  her. 
In  the  middle  of  the  third  dance,  he  confided  to  her 
his  fixed  determination  to  accept  no  more  invitations 
of  the  sort. 

"Amy's  all  right;  she  was  good  to  ask  me,"  he 
answered  Day's  remonstrant  look.  "Still,  I'm  best 
off  out  of  it;  I  simply  don't  belong." 

His  accent  was  final,  and  his  eyes  betrayed  no 
regret.  Nevertheless,  as  he  waltzed  Day  up  to  Rob's 
side,  his  face  had  lighted  at  her  words,  — 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Jack.  As  you  always  say  of 
Phil,  just  give  me  time." 

Now  and  then  Day  found  Sidney  at  these  parties, 
and  Sidney  always  appeared  to  be  in  the  very  thick 
of  the  good  time.  To  be  sure,  her  frocks  were  simpler 
than  the  rest,  and  she  possessed  but  two  of  them  to 
her  name.  However,  the  fact  that  anybody  with  a 
mathematical  turn  of  mind  could  predict  to  a  nicety, 
in  advance  of  any  given  party,  whether  Sidney  would 
appear  in  white  or  yellow  clothes,  took  nothing  from 


228  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

the  welcome  she  received.  Sidney's  much  pressed 
yellow  gown  made  quite  as  many  turns  of  the  floor, 
each  evening,  as  did  the  brand  new  frills  of  Amy  or 
of  Day.  She  was  by  no  means  always  present. 
There  were  still  many  young  hostesses  who  failed  to 
see  the  use  in  broadening  their  small  circle  to  include 
this  girl  from  out  another  world.  There  were  a  few, 
even,  who  resented  Sidney's  coming,  resented,  too, 
her  increasing  popularity.  And  there  were  others  yet, 
and  they  were  growing  in  number  from  week  to  week, 
who  welcomed  her  cordially  among  them. 

Day  had  been  first,  of  course,  in  bringing  this  to 
pass.  Rob's  frankly-spoken  liking  for  Sidney,  too, 
had  carried  weight  with  girls  to  whom  Rob  Argyle's 
word  was  law.  There  were  many  youthful  hostesses 
who  included  Sidney  in  their  lists  because  they  had 
discovered  that  Rob  was  much  more  likely  to  appear, 
if  he  knew  that  Sidney  would  be  on  hand  to  sit  out 
occasional  dances  with  him.  From  the  start,  Amy 
Browne  had  ranged  herself  on  Sidney's  side.  At 
first,  this  had  been  less  for  Sidney's  own  sake  than 
because  Amy  adored  Day  and  was  eager  to  make 
amends  for  the  night  when  she  had  brought  down 
Day's  wrath  upon  herself.  If  Day  wished  Sidney  to 
be  invited,  Amy  was  ready  to  do  her  duty.  She  did 
it  like  a  heroine,  too,  with  the  unexpected  reward  of 
finding  it  turn  to  pleasure  in  the  doing. 

Most  girls  would  have  been  in  danger  of  having 
their  heads  turned  by  this  sudden  adoption  into  a  life 
to  which  heretofore  they  had  been  strangers.  Thanks 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  229 

to  her  whole  life's  training,  Sidney  escaped  this  dan- 
ger. For  seventeen  years,  she  had  been  told  that 
people  counted  merely  for  what  they  were,  not  for 
what  they  had;  not  for  what  they  possessed,  but  for 
what  they  did  with  their  possessions,  and  she  had 
been  bidden  to  choose  her  friends  accordingly.  All 
her  life  long,  she  had  been  used  to  seeing  all  classes 
and  conditions  of  men  welcomed  inside  then*  shabby, 
book-crammed  home;  never  in  all  that  life  could  she 
recall  having  seen  her  parents  seek  to  gloss  over  the 
shabbiness  at  any  point.  Good  manners  ruled  the 
world,  her  father  told  her,  seated  on  his  knee,  and  a 
good  heart  made  good  manners,  the  world  over.  Would 
she  remember  that,  and  not  worry  because  her  new 
frock  was  cut  out  of  her  mother's  old  one?  And  he 
had  dismissed  her  with  a  kiss,  little  dreaming  how  the 
short  lesson  had  burned  itself  hi  to  her  young  memory. 
Apart  from  her  training,  Sidney  owed  something  to 
her  own  downright  character,  much  to  her  cousin 
whose  own  life  had  been  spent  in  homes  such  as  those 
which  she  was  beginning  to  frequent,  and  most  of  all 
to  the  corrective  value  of  a  large  family  of  wayward 
children.  It  was  totally  impossible  for  Sidney  to 
put  on  airs  away  from  home  when,  at  any  hour,  her 
hostess  was  liable  to  walk  hi  upon  Pugs  and  the  twins 
squabbling  in  the  parlour,  or  upon  Bungay  making 
a  speedway  of  the  front  banisters,  or  upon  Phyllis, 
armed  with  soap  and  sand,  polishing  the  well-worn 
brass  knob  on  the  outside  of  the  front  door.  It  was 
quite  within  the  limits  of  chance  that  Amy  Browne 


230  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

might  meet  a  twin  walking  forth  in  a  gown  cut  over 
from  the  one  Sidney  had  worn  to  luncheon  at  the 
Brownes',  the  week  before;  and  Sidney,  knowing  this, 
could  see  no  reason  to  deny  that  the  cutting  over  had 
been  done  by  her  own  hands.  Snobbishness,  to  Sid- 
ney's uncompromising  mind,  consisted  not  so  much 
in  choosing  one's  own  friends  from  the  best  of  life, 
as  in  pretending  to  be  other  than  one  was.  Granted 
a  family  skeleton,  Sidney  Stayre  would  have  dandled 
it  forth  upon  her  knee,  instead  of  putting  it  in  a 
closet  and  then  setting  a  chair  in  front  of  the  closet 
door.  She  made  no  secret  of  liking  the  best  of  things; 
neither  did  she  make  any  secret  of  having  a  large 
share  of  her  likings  denied  to  her  by  sheer  necessity. 
She  saw  no  reason,  however,  for  pulling  a  long  face 
because  they  were  denied. 

In  spite  of  some  denials,  though,  Sidney,  like  Day, 
was  ready  to  admit  that  the  whiter  had  brought  her 
more  than  a  fair  share  of  fun.  It  is  something  to  be 
seventeen,  healthy  in  body  and  in  sense  of  humour. 
It  is  more  even  than  that  to  be  honest,  self-reliant 
and  as  heedless  of  self  as  a  healthy  puppy.  The 
greater  part  of  Sidney's  popularity  arose  from  her 
own  serene  indifference  as  to  whether  she  was  popular 
or  not.  She  was  far  too  busy  enjoying  her  companion 
of  the  moment  to  stop  to  think  whether  the  com- 
panion enjoyed  her  in  the  least.  And,  accordingly, 
her  companion  did  enjoy  her  exceedingly. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  do  it,  though,"  Jack  said  to 
Sidney,  one  day  in  middle  March. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  231 

Side  by  side,  the  two  friends  were  loitering  along 
the  western  edge  of  Central  Park.  It  was  still  so 
early  in  the  afternoon  that  the  sun  lay  warm  upon 
the  asphalt,  and  Sidney  had  given  frank  expression 
to  her  surprise,  when  Jack  had  appeared  in  the 
Stayre  library. 

"Well,  truant,  what  does  this  mean?"  she  said 
gayly,  as  she  offered  him  her  hand. 

"A  holiday." 

"For  what?" 

His  answering  laugh  was  a  little  shamefaced,  as  if 
at  his  own  egotism. 

"It's  my  birthday,"  he  confessed. 

Sidney's  left  hand  followed  her  right  one  into  his 
strong  grasp. 

"All  sorts  of  good  wishes!  Why  didn't  Day  tell  me?" 

"Probably  because  she  didn't  know  it." 

"Day  not  know?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  didn't  say  anything  about  it  at  the  house.  I 
was  afraid  they'd  make  some  sort  of  a  row  about  it." 

"I  know;  but  Day  loves  to  make  a  row,"  Sidney 
remonstrated.  "Really,  Jack,  it  wasn't  quite  fair  to 
her  not  to  tell." 

"You  think  so?" 

Sidney  gave  a  quick,  decisive  little  nod. 

"I  know  so.  In  Day's  place,  or  in  Rob's,  I  should 
be  hurt  that  you  didn't  tell  me  about  it.  Still,  let's 
not  quarrel;  it  was  nice  of  you  to  tell  me,  at  any  rate. 
What  are  you  doing  to  celebrate?  " 


232  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"I'm  here/'  he  answered  briefly.  "Isn't  that 
enough?" 

"For  me,  yes,"  Sidney  responded;  "but  not  for 
you.  Let's  go  for  a  walk  in  this  sunshine.  Really, 
I  am  turning  you  out  of  the  house  for  your  own 
safety,  for  Bungay  and  the  twins  are  at  war,  to-day, 
and  nobody  knows  where  the  next  skirmish  will  take 
place,  nor  when." 

Passing  through  the  hall  on  their  way  to  the  door, 
ten  minutes  later,  they  chanced  upon  Phyllis  coming 
down  the  stairs.  The  girl  hesitated  awkwardly  for 
a  moment,  took  a  backward  step,  then  came  march- 
ing steadily  towards  them,  her  head  erect,  her  out- 
stretched hand  cleaving  the  air  a  full  half-yard  before 
her. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said,  without  a  trace  of 
expression  in  voice  or  face.  "Sidney  says  it  is  your 
birthday.  I  wish  you  much  joy."  And,  dropping 
Jack's  hand  as  she  might  have  dropped  a  hornbug,  she 
tramped  onward  towards  the  rear  regions  of  the  house. 

And  Jack  had  bravely  repressed  his  mirth  until 
such  time  as  he  was  in  the  street  and  safely  could  give 
it  vent.  His  mirth,  however,  left  him  as  swiftly  as  it 
had  come. 

"Do  you  realize,"  he  said  abruptly,  as  they  strolled 
slowly  along  the  borders  of  the  Park;  "the  change  the 
year  has  made  for  me?" 

"You  mean?" 

"That  only  a  year  ago,  I  was  wearing  the  blue  uni- 
form/' he  reminded  her. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  233 

"Are  you  sorry  to  have  lost  it?"  she  asked  de- 
murely. 

"  Hardly.  Is  a  fellow  ever  sorry  to  change  from 
the  life  of  a  tramp  cat  to  a  snug  chimney  corner?"  he 
queried,  with  sudden  energy.  "I'm  as  near  content 
as  a  human  being  can  be." 

"How  near  is  that?"  Sidney  demanded  promptly. 

"Just  far  enough  off  to  wedge  in  an  unfulfilled 
dream  or  two,"  he  made  answer  as,  in  obedience  to 
the  girl's  silent  gesture,  he  turned  to  the  right  and 
came  under  the  bare  trees  of  the  Park. 

"Then  you  dream  dreams,  too?" 

"Rather!"  he  answered  briefly. 

"I  thought  only  girls  did  that.  Do  you  tell 
yours?"  she  asked,  with  swift  curiosity. 

For  an  instant,  he  looked  keenly  down  at  her  as 
she  tramped  on  at  his  side,  her  long,  free  step  swing- 
ing in  perfect  rhythm  with  his  own. 

"If  you'll  tell  first,"  he  assented. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"But  mine  are  so  vague,"  she  objected;  "or,  at 
least,  they  are  in  so  many  parts  that  all  hang  to- 
gether. If  I  must  sum  it  up,  though,  they  are  for 
some  sort  of  a  busy  way  of  living.  It  frets  me  to  be 
idle,  and  there  aren't  so  many  things  a  girl  can  do. 
I  don't  seem  just  to  fit  into  any  of  them,  either." 

"That  won't  go,"  Jack  assured  her.  "It's  alto- 
gether too  vague.  Try  it  again." 

Without  slackening  her  step,  Sidney  frowned 
thoughtfully  at  the  pavement  at  her  feet  where  bars 


234  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

of  cloud  and  sun,  marked  off  by  the  shadows  of  the 
bare  trees  overhead,  formed  a  species  of  ladder  up 
which  they  seemed  to  be  passing  towards  the  open 
stretches  of  sunshine  beyond. 

"It  is  vague,"  she  assented,  after  a  moment's 
thought.  "I  suppose  I  do  have  dreams,  we  all  do, 
for  the  matter  of  that;  but,  beyond  keeping  busy  and 
being  of  a  little  use  now  and  then,  they  don't  take 
much  shape.  I  am  afraid  I  am  having  too  good  a 
time  to  think  .much  about  what's  coming  after." 

Jack  studied  her  once  more.  Then  he  admitted 
her  truth. 

"That's  just  it.  I  can't  see  how  you  do  it, 
though." 

"  Do  what?    Enjoy  myself?  " 

"The  way  you  do,  and  not  think  about  what  comes 
after,  what's  bound  to  come." 

"Jack,"  abruptly  she  faced  him;  "you  are  worry- 
ing." 

"Yes." 

"What  about?" 

"The  mother." 

"Is  there  any  reason?" 

"No,  and  yes.  That's  where  the  dream  comes  in," 
he  said  slowly,  after  an  interval. 

Turning  her  head,  Sidney  stared  long  at  the  tall 
figure  by  her  side,  took  note  of  the  pressure  of  the 
thin,  firm  lips,  of  the  anxious  pucker  about  the  level 
brows.  Then  she  let  her  eyes  fall  to  the  ground  again, 
and  clinched  her  hands  inside  her  muff. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  235 

"Tell  me,  what  have  you  heard  from  her  lately?" 
she  asked. 

Jack's  answer  came  a  bit  drearily. 

"The  old  story  that  is  bound  to  come  to  us  all. 
She  hasn't  been  as  strong,  this  last  winter,  and  she 
mourns  for  me.  I  suppose  it  isn't  strange;  I'm  all 
she  has  left,  and  she  is  growing  old,  older  than  you 
would  think,  because  she  didn't  marry  young.  She's 
never  been  the  same,  since  my  father  died.  I  saw 
the  change  in  her,  when  I  came  home.  Ever  since 
then  -  He  fell  silent,  and  his  keen,  kind  eyes 
were  clouded  heavily. 

"Well?"  Sidney  said  at  length. 

He  roused  himself. 

"You'll  think  I'm  dull,  to-day,"  he  said,  with  an 
apologetic  laugh.  "For  the  matter  of  that,  I  am. 
Perhaps  I'm  getting  old  and  forgetful." 

With  a  little  smile,  a  little  gesture,  Sidney  brushed 
his  words  aside. 

"About  your  mother?"  she  reminded  him.  "Ever 
since  then?" 

Secretly  Jack  compared  his  companion  with  the 
other  girls  he  met,  girls  who  expected  to  chatter  while 
it  was  his  place  to  listen. 

"Ever  since  then,"  he  went  on  steadily;  "she  has 
worried  more,  things  have  gone  on  her  nerves,  she 
hasn't  been  as  happy.  And,  all  this  time,  I've  had 
a  little  dream  of  my  own  that,  some  day  or  other,  I 
could  have  her  with  me  in  a  home  of  our  own.  It 
would  have  been  very  good,  you  know." 


236  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"And  can't  you?"  Sidney  asked,  without  wasting 
useless  words  of  sympathy,  or  even  understanding. 

Jack  liked  it  better  so. 

"I've  been  counting  on  it,  all  this  year,"  he  an- 
swered frankly.  "In  one  more  year,  I  counted,  by 
working  hard  and  not  spending  so  very  much,  I  could 
have  her  down  here  with  me.  My  salary  is  a  good 
one.  Mr.  Argyle  told  me,  only  last  week,  that  it 
would  be  better  still  by  June.  And  so,  without  say- 
ing anything  to  people  here,  I  wrote  to  the  mother." 

Sidney's  face  lighted  in  anticipation  of  the  good 
news  he  was  about  to  tell. 

"At  last!"  she  said  eagerly.  "Then  you  have 
begun  to  dream  true." 

But  Jack  shook  his  head,  heavily,  sadly,  and,  as  he 
answered  her,  his  shoulders  drooped  and  lost  their 
soldierly  carriage. 

"The  answer  came,  to-day,"  he  said  drearily;  "and 
I've  dreamed  true  too  late.  She  says  she  isn't  strong 
enough  to  take  the  journey,  even.  What's  worse, 
they  say  she  may  never  be.  And  that,"  as  he  faced 
her,  Sidney  was  startled  at  the  sudden  desperation 
that  looked  out  of  his  dark  eyes;  "and  that,  Miss 
Sidney,  has  been  my  birthday  present,  my  only  one." 

Jack  dined  at  the  Stayres',  that  night.  Neither 
Sidney  nor  her  mother  would  consent  to  his  going 
away,  and  he  yielded  after  the  barest  semblance  of 
demur.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  was  blue,  depressed  and 
dull,  and,  for  the  hour,  the  cozy  simplicity  of  the 
Stayre  home  suited  his  mood  far  better  than  the 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  237 

Argyle  luxury  could  have  done  just  then.  He  de- 
murred about  accepting  the  invitation;  but,  once  it 
was  accepted,  he  sank  back  into  the  shabby  Morris 
chair  with  a  sigh  of  content. 

"You're  good  to  have  me  about,"  he  added  grate- 
fully. "I'm  not  hilarious  company,  to-night." 

"All  the  more  reason  you  should  stay  with  us," 
Sidney  assured  him  briskly,  for  she  had  been  quick 
to  realize  that,  with  his  disappointment  fresh  upon 
him,  he  felt  in  no  trim  to  meet  the  merry  chaff  of 
Day  and  Rob. 

However,  when  at  last  he  let  himself  in  at  the  Argyle 
front  door,  Day  met  him  hi  the  hall,  and  her  eyes  were 
rebuking. 

"How  could  you?"  she  asked,  while  she  waited 
for  him  to  take  off  his  coat.  "You  might  have 
known  we'd  want  you  here,  to-night." 

He  raised  his  brows  in  silent  question. 

"Of  course,  we  know  it  is  your  birthday,"  she  went 
on.  "Rob  counted  up,  this  noon,  and  made  it  out. 
You  know  we  were  talking  about  ages,  weeks  ago, 
and  you  said  it  was  just  two  weeks  past  your  birthday, 
last  year,  when  Rob  went  to  get  you  to  be  introduced 
to  Daddy.  We  had  been  flying,  all  the  afternoon, 
to  have  a  festive  dinner  ready,  and  then  you  went 
walking  off  with  Sidney." 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  would  know,"  Jack  defended 
himself. 

"Did  Sidney?" 

"I  told  her." 


238  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Day  coloured.     Then  her  real  sweetness  triumphed. 

"One  always  does  tell  Sidney  things/'  she  averred. 
"I  do,  myself.  Still,  do  you  think  she  cared  about 
it  any  more  than  Rob  or  I  would  do?" 

And  Jack  made  honest  answer,  — 

"No,  Day;  I  don't." 

Alone  in  his  room,  that  night,  Jack  crossed  the  floor 
to  stir  the  fire,  then  dropped  down  into  a  chair  where 
he  sat  long,  his  head  resting  on  his  hand.  In  spite 
of  Sidney  and  of  Day,  the  young  fellow  felt  lonely, 
homesick  and  depressed.  After  all,  kind  as  his 
friends  were  to  him,  he  was  in  reality  alone,  an  alien 
in  a  foreign  country,  his  mother  ill  and  his  future 
plans  in  tatters.  The  keen  brown  eyes  grew  vague, 
then  dim,  and  impatiently  Jack  brushed  his  fingers 
across  them.  As  he  raised  his  head  and  straightened 
up  his  shoulders  in  defiance  of  his  passing  lack  of 
courage,  his  glance  fell  upon  a  little  packet  which 
lay  on  the-  table  at  his  side. 

Carelessly  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  drew  it 
towards  him.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  his  whole  face 
lighted,  as  he  read  the  few  words  written  on  the  card 
that  lay  atop. 

" 'From  Rob  and  Day,"  it  said;  "with  birthday 
greeting  to  their  adopted  brother" 

And  Jack,  lonesome  no  longer,  brushed  the  little 
card  across  his  cheek  before  he  put  it  carefully  away 
within  an  inner  pocket. 


"'  I  do  wish  I  could  do  the  things  you  do,'  Day  said,  enviously." 
Page  239. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  239 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

"T  DO  wish  I  could  do  the  things  you  do,"  Day 
said  enviously. 

"Why  can't  you?"  Sidney  made  unfeeling  answer, 
as  she  dragged  the  step-ladder  two  feet  to  the  right 
and  once  more  mounted  its  insecure  summit. 

"Why  —  I  just  can't,"  Day  said  blankly,  for  no 
one  had  ever  put  the  case  to  her  before,  and  her 
reasons  were  still  unformulated. 

Sidney  demolished  a  cobweb  on  the  ceiling,  then 
attacked  the  top  row  of  books  along  the  library  wall. 

"You've  the  usual  number  of  thumbs  and  fingers," 
she  said  composedly.  "Besides,  anybody  can  flap  a 
duster." 

"I  should  say  so,"  Phyllis  made  aggrieved  comment 
from  the  floor.  "That's  the  theory  you  go  on;  and 
you  just  stir  up  the  dust,  without  taking  any  of  it 
out.  Now,  if  you  would  just  wipe  things  softly  and 
shake  the  - 

Sidney  cut  in  remorselessly  upon  her  sister's  lecture 
on  hygienic  housekeeping. 

"I  should  live  to  a  grand  old  age,  and  make  every- 
body's life  a  burden  by  my  neatness,"  she  responded. 
"Meanwhile,  I  am  just  banging  down  the  dust  for 
you  to  wipe  up  softly  and  shake  out.  Day,  if  you 


240  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IX  XEW  YORK 

feel  any  yearnings  to  help,  there's  a  pile  of  fresh 
dusters  behind  the  hall  door  and  dust  enough  to  go 
around.  Still,  if  I  were  you,  I'd  keep  tidy  and  look  on." 

Day  laughed. 

"That's  another  of  my  grievances,  Sidney.  You 
not  only  do  all  sorts  of  things;  but  you  contrive  to 
keep  yourself  immaculate  while  you  are  doing  them. 
If  I  sat  in  a  corner  and  tended  my  handkerchief,  all 
day  long,  I  couldn't  keep  so  starchy.  How  do  you 
doit?" 

"Soap  suds,"  Sidney  returned  prosaically.  "Still, 
I  never  noticed  you  were  given  to  being  mussy.  How 
is  Jack?" 

"Worrying  about  his  mother,  poor  old  boy!"  Day 
said,  with  sudden  gravity. 

Sidney  wrinkled  her  brows,  partly  from  sympathy, 
partly  from  her  efforts  to  maintain  her  balance  on  the 
narrow  topmost  step. 

"Do  you  suppose  she  really  is  so  ill?" 

Day  opened  her  eyes  in  surprise  at  the  question. 

"What  else  could  it  be?"  she  asked. 

Sidney  brought  two  books  together  with  a  sounding 
whack. 

"I  hoped  she  was  making  a  fuss  about  nothing  at 
all.  People  do,  sometimes,  and  then  find  out  that 
nothing  especial  is  the  matter,  after  all,"  she  explained. 
"Jack  is  so  plucky,  too.  It's  all  too  bad." 

"Daddy  is  going  to  send  him  home,  right  after 
Easter,"  Day  said,  as  she  picked  up  a  duster  and  a 
handful  of  books. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  241 

Sidney  turned  about  abruptly. 

"To  stay?"  she  asked,  and  there  was  open  con- 
sternation in  her  tone. 

"Of  course  not.  I  believe  the  office  would  stop, 
if  it  were  not  for  Jack.  My  father  couldn't  breathe, 
without  his  help.  But  he'll  be  gone  for  two  or  three 
weeks;  longer,  if  necessary.  He  hasn't  had  a  real 
vacation  since  he  came,  you  know." 

Sidney  pushed  the  books  aside  vindictively. 

"  I'm  afraid  this  won't  be  much  of  a  vacation.  He's 
working  hard  and  needs  the  change;  but  this  may 
not  do  him  any  good." 

Day  sighed  and  dropped  her  duster. 

"Oh,  dear,  isn't  it  horrid?"  she  said.  "When  you 
can  do  anything  you  want,  it's  such  a  shame  you 
really  can't  do  the  least  thing  for  your  friends,  when 
they're  in  trouble." 

The  words  were  runic;  not  so  the  meaning,  how- 
ever, and  Sidney  was  about  to  reply  when  Rob's 
voice  hailed  her  from  the  doorway. 

"Hullo!  What's  all  this  vale  of  tears?"  he  in- 
quired, as  he  came  strolling  into  the  room  hard  upon 
the  heels  of  Bungay  who  had  met  him  at  the  door. 
"Also,  what's  all  this  flapping  of  banners?  I'm  no 
conquering  hero,  and  that  square  of  pink  spotty 
cloth  isn't  the  flag  of  any  known  community,  as  far 
as  I'm  aware." 

"We  are  housecleaning,"  Phyllis  observed,  from 
her  corner. 

"Hullo,  Phil!    I  neglected  to  see  you  at  first. 


242  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

How's  your  majesty,  to-day?"  Rob  queried,  as  he 
lowered  himself  to  the  Morris-chair  cushion  which 
lay,  wrong  side  up,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  "Go 
easy,  Bungay;  that's  my  rickety  leg.  I  say,  Day, 
does  this  sort  of  thing  get  loose  at  our  house?" 

"Of  course  it  does,  only  you  aren't  there  to  see," 
Day  answered  hastily,  lest  Phyllis  seize  the  occasion 
to  cast  slur  upon  the  Argyle  neatness. 

"I'll  take  jolly  good  care  in  future  not  to  see,"  Rob 
said  fervently,  choking  the  while  over  the  cloud  of 
dust  which  Phyllis  was  supposedly  shaking  outside 
the  open  window.  "Oh,  I  say,  go  round  to  leeward, 
while  you're  about  it,  Phil."  And,  catching  up  a 
newspaper,  he  made  himself  a  cap  which  he  gravely 
donned  as  protection  to  his  yellow  hair.  "Do  you 
girls  often  act  like  this?"  he  inquired  then. 

"It's  our  annual  festival,"  Sidney  assured  him, 
from  her  seat  on  top  of  the  ladder. 

"I'd  schedule  it  for  the  twenty-ninth  of  February, 
then,  and  dock  it  off  the  other  years.  Is  Day  help- 
ing?" 

"No.  I  only  wish  I  could,"  she  answered 
promptly. 

Rob  put  out  his  hand,  seized  her  and  drew  her 
forcibly  down  beside  him  on  the  edge  of  the  cushion. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't.  It's  very  smudgy,"  he  said 
calmly  then. 

"It's  better  that  we  should  be  smudgy  than  to  have 
the  house  unclean,"  Phyllis  observed  sententiously, 
as  she  attacked  a  fresh  row  of  books. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  243 

"Yes,"  Rob  said,  with  unabated  tranquillity; 
"you'll  wash.  But  what's  the  row  with  the  house?" 

"Rob!  Don't  show  your  ignorance,"  Day  be- 
sought him.  "Phyllis  will  think  we're  never  clean. 
Don't  you  know  mother  has  the  house  gone  over, 
every  spring  and  fall,  and  things  washed  and  aired?" 

"Of  course;  but  that's  not  half  so  spectacular  as 
this.  Why  don't  you  get  up  on  top  of  a  ladder  and 
flap  things,  Day?" 

"She  is  probably  waiting  for  you  to  set  her  the 
example,"  Phyllis  said  pertly,  regardless  of  Sidney's 
signals  to  her  to  hold  her  peace. 

"I  can't.  I'm  weak  in  my  legs,  like  Sidney's  lad- 
der; I  can  only  sit  here  and  advise.  Sidney,  that 
last  book  is  seven-ninths  of  an  inch  out  of  plumb. 
What  are  you  going  to  do,  when  you  get  this  done?" 

"The  hall  and  parlours." 

"Oh,  I  begin  to  see  what  you're  at,  Phil."  Rob 
nodded  sagaciously.  "You  work  on  the  principle  of 
a  snowplow,  shove  the  dust  along  ahead  of  you,  till 
you  get  it  out  hi  the  street.  I  suppose  that's  what 
makes  the  summers  so  dusty.  When  did  you  begin 
this  spree  of  cleanliness?" 

"Last  week.  It  will  take  us  all  this  week  to 
finish." 

Rob  whistled,  while  he  twisted  Day's  loose  ends  of 
hair  into  a  series  of  diminutive  pugs  around  the  cheek 
turned  towards  him. 

"Jove!"  he  said.  "You  must  be  very  clean,  or 
very  much  the  other  thing;  I'm  not  sure  which. 


244  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Sidney,  I'm  all  devotion  to  you;  but  I'm  glad  I'm  not 
sharing  your  roof  tree  in  these  latter  days." 

Sidney  made  a  ball  of  her  duster  and  cast  it  down 
at  him. 

"So  am  I,  for  you  take  up  an  unconscionable 
amount  of  room,  and  I  am  nearly  ready  to  sweep," 
she  answered,  as  she  prepared  to  dismount  from  her 
lofty  perch. 

"All  right.  Just  say  when,  and  I'll  see  that  Day 
goes  aloft.  I  begin  to  understand  things  now.  I 
met  Wade  down  town,  this  morning,  and  he  said  he 
was  dining  at  the  club,  to-night." 

"Yes,  the  sinner!  He'd  much  better  come  back 
here  and  help,"  Sidney  said,  while  she  brandished  the 
broom  at  the  comfortable-looking  pair  on  the  floor. 

"Sidney!"  PhyUis's  accent  was  rebuking.  "Wade 
isn't  strong,  you  know." 

"Neither  am  I,"  Rob  retorted;  "and  you  just  tried 
to  rope  me  in.  What  in  the  world  do  you  want,  Sid- 
ney? I'm  no  hen;  I  decline  to  be  shooed." 

"I  want  you  and  Day  to  get  out  of  my  sweeping. 
Excuse  this  apparent  lack  of  hospitality;  but  I  am 
expecting  to  get  through  in  time  to  array  myself  in 
my  best  frock  and  eat  some  of  Amy's  dinner." 

"Shall  you  wash  your  hands  first?"  Rob  queried,  as 
he  rose  to  his  feet.  "Day,  would  we  best  get  out  en- 
tirely, or  do  you  suppose  that  ladder  carries  double?" 

"I  propose  to  try  it,"  Day  returned.  "I  am  get- 
ting interested  in  this  work.  Sidney,  how  many 
things  can  you  do?  Last  month,  you  made  the  twins 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  245 

each  a  new  gown,  and,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  you 
cooked  the  dinner  twice,  last  week.  How  do  you  do 
it  all?" 

Sidney  laughed. 

"Necessity  —  and  pride,"  she  answered  succinctly. 

"Which  is  which?"  Rob  inquired,  as  he  cautiously 
mounted  the  ladder,  lugging  his  cushion  with  him. 

"Food  is  necessity;  clothes  are  pride.  What  do 
you  propose  to  do  with  that  cushion?" 

"Spread  it  out  on  the  top  step,  and  then  sit  on  it. 
I  don't  feel  at  home,  anywhere  else.  It's  mine  by 
right  of  possession."  And  Rob  settled  himself  upon 
his  insecure  foundation  and  made  place  for  Day  at 
his  feet.  "I'm  ornamental,  you  know,"  he  added; 
"and  I  delight  in  seeing  you  be  useful." 

"Look,  then.  I'm  too  busy  to  talk."  And  Sidney 
wielded  the  broom  with  violent  industry. 

From  his  perch,  Rob  contemplated  her  with  an 
approval  which  was  only  half  mocking.  In  truth, 
Sidney  made  an  attractive  picture  as  she  moved 
lightly  about  the  room,  her  sleeves  rolled  up  to  her 
round,  dimpled  elbows,  her  bright  hair  bound  in  a 
gay  bandanna  kerchief  and  her  brown  skirt  tucked 
up  to  show  her  trim  brown  shoes.  Her  face,  mean- 
while, was  lighted  with  the  gayety  of  their  talk  and 
flushed  with  exercise  and  health.  In  some  fashion 
the  secret  of  which  was  known  to  herself  alone,  she 
contrived  to  look  as  trim  and  fresh  as  ever  in  her  life; 
and  Rob,  watching,  felt  a  half -formed  regret  that  none 
of  the  boys  who  had  seen  her  dancing  at  Amy's  party 


246  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

could  look  down  as  he  was  doing,  upon  the  pretty 
picture  that  she  made.  Then  he  dismissed  the  wish, 
,  and  decided  that  he  preferred  to  keep  the  picture  for 
himself  alone.  Up  to  that  hour,  Rob  Argyle  had 
associated  housework  with  age  and  shrunken  shoul- 
ders and  sloppy  skirts. 

In  the  meantime,  Sidney  was  wholly  absorbed  in 
the  free,  strong  play  of  her  own  broom,  in  the  little 
line  of  dust  which  moved  steadily  ahead  of  her  across 
the  brightening  carpet.  For  the  moment,  she  quite 
forgot  her  guests,  perched  up  out  of  harm's  way,  for- 
got they  might  be  watching,  perchance  with  eyes  of 
criticism.  Then,  as  she  deftly  rolled  the  line  of  dust 
into  a  narrowing  heap  and  beckoned  Phyllis  to  bring 
the  dustpan,  Rob  gave  a  portentous  sneeze. 

"Beautiful!"  he  made  grave  comment.  "I  could- 
n't have  done  it  better,  myself.  How  long  before  the 
clouds  will  roll  by  enough  to  make  it  safe  for  me  to 
come  down?" 

"Oh,  an  hour  or  so.  You'd  best  stay  where  you 
are,"  she  answered  gayly. 

"And  then  will  Phyllis  wipe  us  softly  up  and  hang 
us  out  of  the  window?"  Day  made  irreverent  ques- 
tion. "If  so,  I  think  we'd  better  be  going." 

But  Sidney  interposed. 

"Wait,"  she  said;  "I've  finished  now.  Come  into 
the  other  room.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  my 
party." 

"Didn't  know  you  were  going  to  have  one,"  Rob 
said,  as  he  prepared  to  descend. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  247 

"Yes.  I  want  to  do  something  for  the  people  who 
have  been  so  nice  to  me." 

"Laudable;  but  what's  the  use?" 

"To  even  things  up  a  little,"  Sidney  said,  as  she 
led  the  way  to  the  next  room. 

"I  thought  you  were  above  that  sort  of  thing," 
Rob  answered  bluntly. 

"What  sort?" 

"Social  swappery,"  he  replied,  as  he  dropped  into 
a  chair  and  sat  looking  up  at  her  with  a  shade  of 
disappointment  in  his  blue  eyes. 

Sidney  felt  the  disappointment,  felt  it  and  sought 
to  justify  herself. 

"I  don't  think  anybody  is  above  it,  Rob.  We 
none  of  us  like  to  take  so  much  more  than  we  can 
give." 

"But  you  don't." 

Sidney  smiled. 

"I  have  been  accepting  invitations,  all  this  winter 
long,"  she  reminded  him. 

"What  if  you  have?  You've  done  your  share  back 
again."  \ 

"Me?  I've  done  nothing,  not  even  asked  Amy 
Browne  to  lunch." 

Rob  frowned. 

"You  haven't  needed  to.  Instead,  you've  done 
your  share  in  going  to  things,  and  helping  make 
things  go.  Amy  and  the  others  wanted  you;  you 
went.  They  got  what  they  were  after,  and  now  I 
don't  see  what  more  you  ought  to  do." 


248  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

But  Sidney  shook  her  head,  and  her  laugh  held  its 
own  note  of  dignity. 

"Rob,"  she  said;  "that's  arrant  nonsense." 

"It's  not  nonsense,  either.  Do  you  suppose,  when 
I'm  out  with  Jack,  I  don't  get  more  than  enough  out 
of  him,  out  of  his  talk,  out  of  — "  he  hesitated  for  an 
instant;  "out  of  the  way  he  looks  out  for  me  and 
never  forgets  me,  a  dozen  times  more  than  enough  to 
make  up  for  the  odds  and  ends  I  do  for  him?  Be- 
sides, with  friends,  one  doesn't  keep  accounts." 

Bluntly  he  spoke,  and,  speaking,  he  faced  her  fear- 
lessly, although  he  felt  sure  his  words  would  rouse 
her  opposition.  Instead  of  that,  however,  she  nodded 
across  at  him  in  obvious  agreement. 

"Not  with  a  friend  like  you,"  she  answered  quickly. 
"All  winter  long,  I  have  had  the  best  possible  time 
with  Day  and  you;  you've  done  everything  for  me, 
and  it  doesn't  worry  me  in  the  least.  I  know  you've 
enjoyed  it  just  as  much  as  I,  and  that's  a  lot.  But 
with  the  others,  it's  different.  They  aren't  friends, 
the  way  you  are.  I  like  them,  and  they've  been  nice 
to  me;  but  I'm  not  willing  to  have  it  stop  there.  I 
want  to  show  them  that  I  liked  it  and,  as  far  as  I  can, 
want  to  make  it  nice  for  them." 

"But  what's  the  use?"  Rob  protested.  "They've 
had  their  innings  with  you  already." 

Day  spoke  suddenly,  from  the  corner  where  she 
sat  enthroned  among  the  heap  of  sofa  cushions  which 
Phyllis  had  taken  from  the  dismantled  library. 

"I  know  how  Sidney  feels,"  she  interposed.    "I 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  249 

should  be  that  way,  myself,  even  if  there  isn't  any 
need  of  it.  Of  course,  Rob,  you  and  I  don't  count; 
but  with  Amy  and  the  other  girls  - 

Sidney  cast  upon  her  a  look  of  gratitude. 

"That's  just  it,  Day.  I  have  a  brain  or  two, 
myself,  and  I  think  I  know  how  it  has  happened, 
better  than  Rob  thinks  I  do.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
you  two  people,  Amy  and  the  other  girls  would  have 
let  me  sit  in  a  corner  till  the  end  of  time." 

"Then  what  makes  you  so  everlastingly  grateful 
to  them?"  Rob  asked  shrewdly. 

Sidney  lifted  her  head  and  spoke  with  pride. 

"I'm  not  grateful,  Rob,  not,  at  least,  to  them.  I 
am  to  you.  With  them  I'm  not  grateful;  I  merely 
want  to  pay  my  honest  debts.  With  you  and  Day," 
crossing  the  floor,  she  dropped  down  at  Day's  side; 
"  there  isn't  any  debt  at  all  —  that  I  could  ever  pay." 

For  an  instant  of  silence,  Rob  contemplated  his 
toes  with  frowning  intentness;  but  Day's  arm  stole 
around  Sidney's  waist,  and  the  eyes  of  the  two  girls 
met  in  a  look  of  perfect  understanding. 

"Sidney,"  Phyllis's  voice  sounded  hi  the  open  door- 
way; "I  do  wish  you  would  go  up  to  the  bathroom, 
quick.  One  of  the  twins  has  been  sailing  boats  in 
the  tub,  and  she  can't  turn  off  the  water  nor  get  out 
the  stopper,  and  everything  is  flooded.  And  Bungay 
has  just  broken  father's  largest  bottle  of  ink  and  —  " 

"Roll  him  on  the  floor,  then;  he'll  soak  it  up  into 
his  clothes,  and  then  you  can  put  him  into  the  tub  and 
soak  it  out  again,"  Rob  made  practical  suggestion, 


250  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

as  Sidney  fled  up  the  stairs  in  the  direction  of  a  distant 
sound  of  splashing.  "Sit  down,  Phil,  and  entertain 
us  like  a  lady." 

"Can't.    I'm  busy." 

"Let  the  busy  keep." 

"I  believe  in  finishing  your  work,  before  you  begin 
to  play,"  Phyllis  said  severely.  "Besides,  it  is  al- 
most noon  and  time  for  Wade." 

"Time  for  Wading,  I  should  say,  by  the  look  of  the 
twins,"  Rob  observed,  as  one  drenched  form  and  then 
another  went  scuttling  past  the  parlour  door.  "  Never 
mind,  though,  come  and  sit  down  and  rest  yourself, 
and  help  us  plan  about  Sidney's  party." 

"I  didn't  know  she  was  going  to  have  one,"  Phyllis 
answered,  with  manifest  disfavour. 

"Neither  did  we,  till  now." 

Phyllis  shut  her  lips  and  started  to  stroke  back  her 
hair  with  the  old  gesture.  Then,  suddenly  recollect- 
ing the  loose  locks  which  graced  her  forehead,  she 
desisted. 

"I  should  have  thought  she  would  have  told  her 
own  family,  first  of  all." 

"She  did.    She  told  us." 

"Hh!  You  aren't  related."  Phyllis's  tone  was 
dangerously  akin  to  that  of  Bungay  when  a  mood  of 
opposition  lay  upon  him. 

"Only  by  adoption.  My  ancestral  monkey  ate 
the  nuts  on  your  family  tree,  and  so  that  makes  us 
cousins,"  Rob  explained  blandly. 

Phyllis  disdained  the  explanation. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  251 

"When  Is  she  going  to  have  her  party?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"What  sort  of  a  party  is  she  going  to  have?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Where  is  she  going  to  have  it?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Whom  is  she  going  to  have?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Phyllis  glared  at  him  with  a  fierceness  which  was 
lessened  by  the  smooch  of  dust  across  her  right  cheek. 

"Do  you  think  she  is  going  to  have  me?"  she 
demanded  disdainfully. 

"I  don't  know." 

Phyllis  straightened  herself  and  thrust  her  arms 
akimbo. 

"Well,  I  must  say,  you  don't  know  so  very  much, 
yourself,"  she  exploded. 

With  the  same  tranquil  calm  which  had  marked 
the  cadence  of  his  unvarying  reply,  Rob  rose  to  his 
feet. 

"Exactly  so,"  he  assented.  "That's  one  of  the 
ways  wherein  we  show  our  kinship.  Day,  since  you 
urge  me,  I'll  be  going." 

And,  arm  in  arm,  the  brother  and  sister  took  their 
departure,  leaving  Phyllis  to  glower  after  them  in 
wrath  too  deep  for  words. 


252  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

"  OIDNEY  is  going  to  give  a  party,"  Phyllis  an- 

^  nounced  to  Wade,  that  night. 

"Is  she?  When?"  Wade  glanced  up  from  his 
book,  as  he  asked  the  question. 

"She  hasn't  deigned  to  tell  me  anything  about  it," 
Phyllis  said,  with  a  hostile  sniff. 

"Well,  she  probably  will,  when  she  gets  ready," 
Wade  returned  placidly,  and  then  he  resumed  his 
reading. 

Ruthlessly  Phyllis  broke  in  upon  it  for  a  second 
time. 

"But  she  has  told  Rob  and  Day." 

"Has  she?" 

Wade's  unruffled  tone  ruffled  Phyllis  still  more. 

"Has  she!  Yes,  she  has.  What's  more,  I  think 
it's  a  shame,"  she  burst  out. 

This  time,  Wade  looked  up  and  closed  his  book. 

"What  is  a  shame,  Phyllis?  Don't  you  want  Sidney 
to  have  a  party?" 

"I  don't  want  her  to  go  babbling  about  it,  all  over 
the  city." 

"Has  she?" 

"Yes.  She's  been  and  told  the  Argyles  all  about 
it."  In  her  irritation,  Phyllis  neglected  to  recall 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  253 

Rob's  answers,  that  very  noon,  to  her  own  searching 
questions. 

Long  since,  Wade  Winthrop  had  learned  that 
laughter  had  no  place  in  a  successful  argument  with 
his  young  cousin.  Nevertheless,  he  did  laugh  now, 
as  he  reflected  upon  Rob  and  Day,  regarded  as  all 
the  New  York  population.  Then  speedily  he  re- 
pressed his  ill-timed  amusement. 

"What  did  she  tell  them?"  he  inquired,  hoping 
by  this  question  to  divert  Phyllis  from  her  main  point. 

Instantly  Phyllis  mounted  upon  her  dignity. 

"How  should  I  know?  I  wasn't  listening  around 
the  corner,"  she  said  severely. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Phil.  But  how  did  you  know 
she  told  them,  then?" 

"Rob  gave  it  away.  He  never  could  keep  a  secret; 
boys  can't/'  Phyllis  made  disdainful  answer.  Then, 
catching  her  cousin's  eye,  she  sought  to  amend  her 
phrase.  "Of  course,  you  may  have  done  it,  when 
you  were  young,"  she  added  more  gently. 

"Perhaps,"  Wade  assented  gravely.  "Still,  it  is 
so  long  ago,  I  can't  well  remember.  But  the  party, 
Phil,  when  is  it  coming  off?" 

"I  told  you  I  didn't  know  a  single  thing  about  it," 
she  responded  sharply.  "Sidney  never  tells  me  any- 
thing." 

"Do  you  know  why?" 

"I  suppose  because  she  thinks  I'm  not  worth  the 
trouble,"  Phyllis  muttered  vindictively. 

"It  is  because  you  never  tell  her  things,  nor  act 


254  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

as  if  you  were  interested  in  what  she  does,"  Wade 
assured  her,  with  a  smile  which  took  the  sting  from 
his  arraignment. 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should  be  interested/'  Phyllis 
grumbled. 

"Sisters?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she  assented  grudgingly. 

"And  almost  the  same  age?" 

"Three  years  apart,"  she  corrected  him  instantly. 

"Yes.     And  we  are  fourteen,"  he  reminded  her. 

"Wade!    Not  truly?" 

"I'm  an  old  fellow,  fully  twice  your  age,  Phil;  but 
you  are  interested  in  what  I  do.  At  least,  you  say 
you  are." 

Phyllis  summed  up  the  situation  with  refreshing 
brevity. 

"Yes;    but  you  are  different." 

"I'm  sorry,"  Wade  said  in  all  seriousness.  "I'd 
like  to  be  like  Sidney." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  Phyllis  grumbled  again,  al- 
though she  was  quite  well  aware  of  Wade's  reason. 
"You're  nice  enough,  as  you  are,  even  if  you  do  think 
Sidney  is  an  angel." 

"But  I  don't.  Sidney  is  much  nicer  than  any 
angel,"  Wade  replied  composedly. 

Phyllis  sought  refuge  in  sanctification. 

"I  can  think  of  nothing  nicer  than  an  angel,"  she 
observed  and,  as  she  spoke  and  from  sheer  association 
of  ideas,  she  clasped  her  hands  upon  her  narrow  chest. 

"Odd!     lean."     Wade  spoke  musingly. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  255 

"What?" 

"A  live  girl  with  a  large  sense  of  fun  and  a  larger 
sense  of  honour." 

"Oh!"  Phyllis  digested  the  pill  in  silence.  Then 
she  returned  to  the  charge.  "I  do  think  she  might 
have  told  her  own  sister,"  she  iterated. 

"So  do  I." 

Phyllis  interrupted  him. 

"Then  you  don't  think  Sidney  is  perfect,  after  all." 

"I  never  said  she  was.  Besides,  you  interrupted 
me.  I  was  going  on  to  say,  if  the  sister  asked  her." 
Then,  weary  of  the  skirmishing,  Wade  suddenly  ad- 
vanced to  the  attack.  "Phil,  what  in  the  world  is 
the  matter  with  you?  It  is  ever  so  long  since  you 
have  had  such  a  cranky  fit  as  this.  I  was  thinking, 
only  the  other  day,  you'd  left  them  off  entirely. 
Really,  I'd  drop  them,  Phil;  they  are  horribly  un- 
becoming. Besides,"  he  laughed  a  little;  "they'll 
give  you  wrinkles." 

"Who  cares?"  she  asked  tartly. 

"I  do.  I'm  not  going  to  have  my  young  cousin 
spoiling  her  face,  just  when  she's  beginning  to  improve. 
Moreover,  I'm  not  going  to  have  her  maligning 
Sidney.  She  is  she.  You  are  you.  You  each  have 
your  own  friends,  and  I  notice  you  don't  always  tell 
her  your  own  plans  as  soon  as  you  get  them  made," 
he  concluded,  in  a  final  outburst  of  arraignment. 

Phyllis  was  always  prone  to  the  unexpected. 
Now  she  braced  herself  and  took  Wade's  blame 
fairly  and  without  flinching. 


256  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"No;  I  don't,"  she  admitted. 

"And  turn  about  is  fair  play,  except  when  the 
game  goes  against  you?  Cheer  up,  Phil,"  he  added. 
"Honestly,  child,  you  are  improving,  and  I'm  a  good 
deal  proud  of  you.  Don't  mess  things  by  getting 
cranky  now." 

She  had  been  standing  beside  the  table,  fidgeting 
with  the  books  and  with  the  paper-knife.  Now, 
however,  she  made  a  swift  step  forward,  and  dropped 
down  on  the  arm  of  Wade's  chair. 

"Wade,  I  do  try,"  she  said  brokenly;  "but  —  but 
it  isn't  easy." 

Wade's  arm  slid  about  her  waist  with  just  the 
gesture  it  took  in  welcoming  Sidney.  For  an  instant, 
he  was  silent,  looking  up  into  his  young  cousin's 
face  and  studying  the  changes  that  the  past  four 
months  had  wrought  there.  The  face  was  gentler 
than  of  yore,  the  old  frowning  lines  about  the  brows 
had  lost  somewhat  of  their  tensity,  the  corners  of 
the  lips  were  slowly  turning  upward.  Yes,  in  spite 
of  her  passing  storms,  Phyllis  was  improving,  and 
the  improvement  was  by  no  means  all  contained  in 
the  increased  trimness  of  her  dress,  in  the  softer 
arrangement  of  her  hair.  Wade  studied  her  with 
keen  and  loving  eyes;  for,  during  the  past  four  months, 
he  had  come  to  care  genuinely  for  the  prickly,  tem- 
pestuous child  who  now  was  leaning  against  his 
shoulder.  Then,  at  length,  he  made  assent. 

"No,  Phil;   it  isn't." 

"You  don't  know  much  about  it,  though,"  she  went 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  257 

on  swiftly.  "It  isn't  fun  to  be  queer  and  homely, 
to  be  the  odd  one,  even  if  you  have  brought  it  all  on 
yourself.  Things  are  better  than  they  used  to  be, 
I  know;  but  —  Wade,  you've  done  it  all." 

Old  as  he  was,  and  busy  with  a  man's  engrossing 
interests,  Wade  yet  coloured  like  a  boy  at  this  sudden 
outburst  from  taciturn  Phyllis.  Then,  laughing  a 
little,  he  shook  his  head. 

"You've  done  it,  Phil,  done  it  for  yourself.  I  only 
punched  you  up  and  made  you  start." 

Once  more  he  was  surprised,  as  her  hand  shut 
on  his  hands,  hard  and  tight. 

"Then  punch  me  up  again,  and  keep  me  going," 
she  begged,  and  her  humility,  simple  as  that  of  a 
little  child,  sat  well  upon  her  arrogant  young  shoul- 
ders. Then,  with  a  swift  recoil,  she  came  back  to  her 
usual  brisk  speech.  "I  wonder  who  will  be  there," 
she  observed,  as  she  rose,  crossed  the  room  and 
dropped  into  a  chair. 

Wade  realized  that  the  gentler  mood  was  ended; 
he  had  sufficient  tact  to  make  no  effort  to  prolong 
it  beyond  its  natural  life.  Instead,  he  picked  up 
his  magazine  and,  balancing  it  upon  his  knee,  turned 
over  the  pages,  while  he  looked  across  at  Phyllis. 

"It's  bound  to  be  one  thing  or  the  other,"  he  said 
carelessly;  "either  her  old  set,  or  the  new.  I  rather 
think,  by  her  telling  Rob  and  Day  about  it,  that  she 
means  to  have  their  set,  Amy  Browne  and  the  others." 

"I  don't  see  what  she  can  do  with  those  people." 
Phyllis's  tone  was  too  thoughtful  to  savour  of  hostility. 


258  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  she  can't  give  them  anything  half  so 
nice  as  the  things  they  have,  all  the  time." 

Wade  looked  up  to  meet  her  thoughtful  blue  eyes 
squarely. 

"Not  half  so  elaborate,  perhaps;  but  just  as  nice," 
he  corrected  her.  "Perhaps,  a  good  deal  nicer. 
Money  isn't  everything,  child." 

But  already  Phyllis  had  shifted  her  ground. 

"Do  you  suppose  she  will  have  Jack  Blanchard?" 
And  her  voice  showed  her  dislike  of  the  idea. 

"Probably." 

"I  can't  see  why  everybody  is  so  taken  with  that  br — 
creature. ' '  Phyllis  made  hasty  substitution  of  her  final 
word,  as  she  caught  her  cousin's  disapproving  glance. 

The  disapproval  lost  itself  in  a  laugh. 

"No  more  than  I  can  see  why  you  aren't  taken 
with  him,"  Wade  told  her. 

"It's  because  he's — "  Phyllis  hesitated;  then 
her  innate  and  fearless  honesty  carried  the  day. 
"I  rather  think  it's  because  I'm  a  little  jealous." 
Then  she  sat  up  rigidly  again.  "Anyhow,  if  he  is 
there,  I  won't  go." 

This  time,  Wade  yielded  to  the  temptation  of  tak- 
ing the  wind  out  of  her  sails. 

"Perhaps  Sidney  may  not  plan  for  you,  anyway," 
he  suggested,  and  Phyllis  suddenly  bethought  herself 
that  it  was  time  for  bed. 

Wade  called  her  back  from  the  threshold,  though, 
and  took  her  hand  into  his. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  259 

"  Little  cousin,  don't  get  huffy  with  me,"  he  said 
then.  "Good  night,  child,  and  make  me  a  promise." 

"I  will,"  she  agreed  rashly. 

"Good.  This  is  it.  Very  likely  Sidney  won't 
have  a  place  for  either  of  us  at  her  party.  You  are 
almost  too  young;  I  am  immensely  too  old.  But, 
if  she  does  ask  you,  you'll  go  to  help  on  the  good  tune 
as  much  as  you  possibly  can?" 

Her  face  fell. 

"Wade,  I  won't,"  she  answered  flatly. 

"It's  a  promise,"  he  reminded  her. 

For  a  long  minute,  she  stood  there  struggling 
between  her  perversity  and  her  conscience.  Then 
she  raised  her  head. 

"Yes,"  she  admitted  grudgingly;  "I  did  promise, 
and  I  never  break  a  promise." 

Then  she  departed  for  bed,  leaving  her  cousin 
to  sit  long  before  the  fire,  pondering  upon  the  cris- 
cross  lines  of  her  character,  seeking  in  vain  to  dis- 
cover the  best  way  to  untangle  the  knots.  Under- 
neath all  the  thorns  and  brambles,  Phyllis  Stayre 
was  made  of  good  stuff,  he  assured  himself.  Months 
before  this  time,  he  had  taken  his  own  assertion 
chiefly  upon  faith.  Now,  however,  watching  the 
child  keenly,  clinging  to  every  sign  that  marked  her 
wayward  growth,  Wade  felt  that  faith  was  being 
lost  in  sight.  Phyllis  Stayre  was  no  angel,  neither 
was  she,  to  quote  her  cousin's  phrase,  nicer  than  any 
angel.  Nevertheless,  now  and  then  and  upon  rare 
occasions,  an  angelic  attribute  peeped  forth  from 


260  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

the  most  unangelic  soil.  And  Wade,  watching  the 
buds  and  caring  for  them,  yet  sighed  a  little  to  him- 
self as  he  sought  to  reckon  up  the  time  before  such 
feeble  buds  could  send  out  a  perfect  blossom.  Sigh- 
ing, he  threw  aside  his  unread  magazine  and  went 
in  search  of  Sidney.  None  the  less,  his  final  thought, 
that  night,  was  not  for  Sidney,  but  for  his  unregen- 
erate  young  cousin,  Phyllis  Stayre.  Could  the  bald 
truth  have  been  told,  Wade  had  come  to  care  for 
Phyllis  by  sheer  dint  of  worrying  about  her  sins  and 
fighting  the  forlorn  hope  of  all  her  battles.  Years 
afterwards,  he  found  his  payment. 

Phyllis  was  again  in  his  mind,  next  day,  while  he 
was  scouring  the  down-town  streets  in  search  of  a 
city  official  who  resolutely  shunned  an  interview. 
Instead  of  the  official,  he  met  Jack  Blanchard.  Jack's 
way  was  also  his,  and  side  by  side  the  two  young 
men  walked  southward,  along  the  rushing  tide  of 
lower  Broadway.  Beside  them,  the  din  of  the  streets 
drummed  deafeningly  upon  their  ears;  at  their  left, 
a  strident  hum  of  voices  rose  and  fell  from  the  lips 
of  men  hurrying  to  and  fro  around  the  mouth  of 
Wall  Street;  but  above  their  heads  and  above  all 
the  din  and  hum,  the  chimes  in  Trinity  tower  were 
sending  down  their  mellow  call  to  morning  prayer, 
a  call  that  cut  sharply  athwart  the  ceaseless  clamour 
of  the  Street  which  opened  just  across  the  way. 

"It's  not  so  out  of  place,  either,"  Jack  observed, 
without  preface.  "It  makes  a  fellow  stop  and  think, 
just  when  he's  busiest." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  261 

Wade  understood.  He  nodded,  and  they  walked 
on  without  speaking,  until  the  bell  was  still.  When 
once  more  the  din  of  the  streets  was  uppermost,  he 
spoke. 

"Blanchard,  you  know  Phil?" 

"Rather." 

"What  do  you  think  of  her?" 

Jack's  reply  came  promptly. 

"That  she's  the  most  extraordinary  young  person 
it  has  ever  been  my  luck  to  come  across." 

"Yes,"  Wade  made  thoughtful  assent.  "She's 
all  that.  Sometimes,  though,  I  think  she  may  be 
something  more." 

Jack  laughed. 

"At  any  rate,  she's  too  much  for  me,"  he  said.  "I 
get  the  worstof  it,  every  last  time  I  run  up  against  her." 

Wade  stuck  his  hands  in  the  side  pockets  of  his 
short  coat  and  tramped  on  for  an  entire  block  with- 
out speaking. 

"Yes,  I  should  rather  say  you  did,"  he  replied 
then.  "It's  not  easy  to  get  the  best  of  Phil,  and  there 
is  no  reason  you  should  be  especially  ashamed  of 
getting  the  worst  of  it.  She  has  endless  ingenuity  in 
thinking  up  the  worst  possible  thing  to  say.  Still  — " 

Jack  interrupted  him,  thoughtfully  and  with  a 
little  smile  curving  his  lips. 

"When  I  came  down  here," he  observed;  "I  thought 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  expect  anything  what- 
soever of  an  American  girl;  but  Phyllis  outdoes  all 
my  expectations." 


262  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Mine,  too,  and  I  only  came  from  Beacon  Hill," 
Wade  answered,  laughing.  "Still,  as  I  was  about 
to  say,  Phil  barks  and  snaps  a  little;  but  she  doesn't 
often  bite." 

For  his  only  reply,  Jack  lifted  his  bent  arm  and 
cast  an  expressive  glance  up  his  sleeve  to  the  spot 
where  Sidney's  penitential  stitches  still  adorned  the 
lining. 

"I  know.  She  lost  her  head,  that  night,  and  made 
all  sorts  of  an  idiot  of  herself,"  Wade  admitted  frankly. 
"You  have  no  especial  cause  to  love  her,  Jack.  And 
yet,  I  do  wish  you'd  not  sit  on  her  too  hard." 

"I?  I  let  her  alone,  when  there's  a  chance  for  me 
to  get  the  other  side  of  a  door,"  Jack  responded,  with 
a  literal  truth  born  of  several  hair-breadth  escapes. 

"In  judgment,  I  mean,"  Wade  answered.  "Of 
course,  I  know  it's  a  good  deal  like  giving  a  criminal 
extra  rope  and  letting  him  hang  himself;  but  —  the 
child  can't  hurt  you,  Jack.  You  don't  care  for  what 
she  says." 

"It  depends  on  where  she  says  it,"  Jack  replied  a 
little  grimly. 

"Not  if  she  shrieks  it  in  the  street,"  Wade  dis- 
sented promptly.  "The  Argyles  are  so  well  known 
that  people  are  beginning  to  know  you.  Knowing 
you,  that's  enough.  Nobody  knows  Phyllis,  and  she 
shows  she  is  nothing  but  a  child.  Of  course,  she  still 
hangs  on  to  the  brakeman  microbe;  but  she'll  drop 
that  in  time,  and  nobody  believes  it,  anyhow.  If 
they  did,  what  harm?  For  the  matter  of  that,  what 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  263 

harm  if  you  had  been?  But,  about  Phyllis:  she's  not 
all  bad,  Jack." 

"No,"  Jack  agreed  benevolently;  "she  is  merely  a 
little  unexpected." 

"  Exactly.  I  don't  wonder  that  you  hate  the  child. 
In  your  place,  I'd  have  ganched  her  long  ago.  At 
least,  that  would  have  silenced  her,  and  mere  kicking 
in  the  air  never  does  any  hurt.  But  the  child  knows 
you  hate  her,  and  that  only  makes  her  worse." 

"I  don't  hate  her,"  Jack  said  jovially;  "I  only  pass 
her  by  on  the  other  side." 

"It  comes  mighty  near  amounting  to  the  same 
thing,  though,"  Wade  observed.  "I  don't  blame 
you  in  the  least,  mind  you.  In  fact,  I'd  do  the  same 
thing  in  your  place,  as  I  say." 

"Wade,"  Jack  faced  him  suddenly;  "you've  a  bee 
in  your  bonnet.  Out  with  it,  man." 

Wade's  laugh  was  a  little  bit  shamefaced. 

"Fact  is,"  he  admitted;  "I've  worried  about  Phil 
till  I  have  actually  come  to  where  I  tolerate  the 
child.  When  I  came  down  here,  nothing  but  my 
wanting  to  stay  near  Sidney  —  Jack,  that  girl  is  a 
tonic,"  he  broke  off  abruptly. 

His  brown  eyes  upon  a  distant  square  of  pavement 
and  his  lips  shut  tight,  Jack  nodded  shortly. 

"I  wanted  to  be  in  the  same  house  with  her,"  Wade 
resumed.  "Nothing  else  would  have  made  me  put 
up  with  Phil  for  the  space  of  an  hour.  As  it  was,  I 
let  her  alone  as  one  lets  a  toad  hop  around,  untouched. 
In  fact,  I  thought  as  little  about  her  as  I  could,  except 


264  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

when  she  got  in  Sidney's  way.  It  wasn't  till  this  last 
fall  that  it  seemed  to  dawn  on  me  that  nobody  could 
be  so  crossgrained,  all  through.  It  wouldn't  be  a 
possibility;  and,  more  for  the  fun  of  it  than  anything 
else,  I  tried  to  find  the  girl's  soft  side." 

"And  got  yourself  stung  in  the  process/'  Jack  com- 
mented briefly. 

"Yes,  a  half -hundred  times  or  so.  Then  I  made 
up  my  mind  I  wouldn't  give  in.  And  now — "  Wade 
paused  expressively. 

Jack  capped  his  sentence  for  him,  unsentimentally, 
but  in  pithy  fashion. 

"Now  you've  hooked  your  scorpion,  you  don't 
know  how  to  let  go." 

"I  don't  want  to  let  go.  Jack,  the  child  isn't  half 
bad." 

"Maybe  not,"  Jack  responded  dubiously.  "Still, 
she  must  be  fully  seven-sixteenths." 

Wade  laughed. 

"Don't  be  too  hard  on  her,  though,  Jack,"  he 
added.  "It's  not  like  you  to  be  that  way." 

Jack  stuck  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  faced  him. 

"Now  you  look  here,  Winthrop,"  he  said.  "I'm 
a  man  and  a  British  subject,  and  I  have  a  corner  of  a 
right  to  live,  even  in  America;  but  Phyllis  can't 
accept  the  fact.  I  never  have  done  a  thing  to  the 
child  to  make  her  hate  me." 

"Exactly,"  Wade  assented.  "It's  none  of  my 
business,  old  man;  but  have  you  ever  done  anything 
to  make  her  like  you?" 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  265 

Jack  pondered. 

"No,"  he  answered,  after  an  interval;  "I  can't  say 
that  I  have." 

And  Wade,  in  thinking  over  the  matter  afterward, 
admitted  to  himself  the  rare  frankness  and  freedom 
from  rancour  that  marked  Jack's  reply.  Now,  how- 
ever, he  was  too  much  absorbed  in  the  question 
involved  in  Phyllis  to  heed  lesser  details. 

"Try  it,"  he  advised  his  companion  briefly. 

And  Jack's  reply  was  equally  brief. 

"Thanks,  I  value  my  scalp." 

"I  still  wear  mine,"  Wade  assured  him. 

Jack's  next  reply  was  drowned  by  the  roar  of  the 
streets,  and  Wade  made  out  only  the  final  phrase,  — 

" —  but  you're  a  relation." 

"Unhappily,  yes;  only  that  the  relationship  neces- 
sarily includes  Sidney,"  Wade  responded.  "It's  a 
good  deal  of  a  responsibility,  Jack." 

"What  did  you  take  it  for,  then?"  Jack  made  un- 
feeling answer,  though  his  eyes  belied  the  apparent 
hardness  of  his  words. 

"Because  I  couldn't  live  in  the  same  house  with 
the  little  wretch  and  see  her  cut  her  own  throat," 
Wade  confessed. 

"No;  it  wouldn't  have  been  decent,"  Jack  agreed. 
"Now  look  here,  Winthrop,  I'm  not  so  hard  on  the 
little  beggar  as  I  sound.  I  don't  want  any  harm  to 
come  to  her.  If  she  were  in  hot  water,  I'd  help  fish 
her  out.  However,  that  doesn't  mean  I'm  willing, 
as  long  as  she's  cocky  and  walking  on  her  toes  — 


266  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IX  \EW  YORK 

likewise  on  everybody  else's  toes  she  can  —  it  doesn't 
mean  I'm  willing  to  pick  her  out  for  a  chum.  You 
can  do  as  you  choose;  but,  for  my  part,  I  prefer 
Sidney." 

"Of  course.  Who  doesn't?"  Wade's  accent  was 
final.  Then  he  added,  after  another  interval,  "She's 
only  a  child,  Jack,  and  we're  grown  men.  Is  it 
worth  our  while  to  get  on  our  nerves  about  her?" 

Jack's  laugh  caused  more  than  one  passer-by  to 
turn  his  head. 

"Then  what  makes  you  do  it,  man?"  he  demanded. 

And  then,  for  his  corner  was  reached,  he  went  his 
way  and  forgot  Phyllis  Stayre  entirely,  forgot  even 
his  laughing  assurance  to  Wade  that  he  would  help 
to  fish  her  out  of  hot  water,  when  the  need  arose. 
Happily  for  him,  he  had  no  notion  of  how  soon  that 
need  was  destined  to  arise. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  267 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

HHHREE  days  later,  Sidney  saw  fit  to  divulge  her 
-*-  plan  in  its  entirety.  She  saw  fit  to  speak,  one 
April  evening  when  Rob  and  Day,  dashing  in,  breath- 
less, from  a  sudden  shower,  had  come  upon  herself 
and  Wade,  deep  in  a  game  of  chess  before  the  library 
fire.  Across  the  room,  Phyllis  sat  buried  in  a  book, 
and  the  light,  striking  across  her  pale  brown  hair,  her 
deep  red  frock  and  her  intent  young  face,  brought  out 
new  lines  of  girlish  attractiveness  to  which,  less  than 
a  year  before,  Phyllis  Stayre  had  been  a  total 
stranger. 

She  looked  up,  as  Rob  and  Day,  drenched  and 
hilarious,  came  bursting  into  the  room. 

"Do!"  she  said  briefly. 

"How!"  Rob  made  prompt  reply.  "That's  right, 
Phil;  make  the  other  fellow  do  his  share." 

"Share  of  what?" 

"Exuberant  greeting." 

"Hh!"  Phyllis  observed.  Then  she  returned  to 
her  book. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  are  here,"  Sidney  said,  when 
they  were  settled  in  a  semicircle  before  the  cozy  blaze. 
"I  was  going  to  telephone  you,  to  ask  for  a  council 
of  war." 


268  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Rob  clasped  his  hands  across  the  head  of  his  stick, 
and  faced  her. 

"As  to  what?" 

"My  party." 

"At  last!"  Day  said,  with  frank  interest.  "We've 
been  eaten  up  with  curiosity,  Sidney,  and  we  finally 
came  to  the  conclusion  your  plan  had  fallen  through." 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  about  it,  then?" 

"We  didn't  dast,"  Rob  answered  promptly.  "We 
were  afraid  you  weren't  going  to  ask  us." 

"I'm  not,"  Sidney  replied  unexpectedly,  as  she 
bent  forward  and  seized  the  stick  wrhich  Rob  was 
aiming  at  her  in  threatened  vengeance. 

"Oh,  fie!"  he  rebuked  her.  "Mean  trick  to  show 
us  the  pudding,  and  then  not  hand  over  a  single 
plum." 

Sidney  laughed. 

"More  than  that,  I  expect  you  to  bring  the  plums, 
yourselves.  You  and  Day  are  to  come  to  help." 

"Help?"  Rob  inquired. 

"Help  make  it  go.  I'm  no  use,  and  neither  is 
Wade." 

"Thanks,"  Wade  remarked,  from  his  corner.  "This 
is  the  first  intimation  I've  had  that  I  was  to  be 
invited." 

"Or  even  that  I  was  to  have  a  party  at  all;  isn't 
it?"  Sidney  asked. 

"No;  Phil  told  me." 

"How  did  she  know?"  Sidney  cast  a  curious 
glance  in  the  direction  of  her  sister  who,  to  all  appear- 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  269 

/ 

ance,  was  too  much  absorbed  in  her  book  to  heed  the 
conversation. 

Rob  raised  his  hand  and  snapped  his  fingers,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  country  school. 

"I  done  it,"  he  confessed.  "You  never  told  me 
'twas  a  secret,  and  I  leaked  it  into  Phyllis's  left  ear." 

"Well,  that's  no  matter  now,"  Sidney  reassured 
him.  "I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  till  I  had 
talked  it  over  with  my  mother;  and,  for  obvious 
reasons,  I  thought  I'd  wait  for  that  until  the  house- 
cleaning  was  done." 

"But  you  told  us,"  Day  said  practically. 

"Yes.  The  idea  had  just  dawned  on  me,  and  I 
had  to  tell  some  one,  or  burst  with  its  importance." 
Sidney  laughed,  as  she  spoke,  for  Rob  had  queried 
softly,  — 

"Swept  it  up,  Sidney?" 

"No.  I  swept  it  down  from  above,  like  all  good 
things,"  she  retorted.  "Now  listen  to  my  plan. 
I'm  going  to  have  about  a  dozen  besides  ourselves, 
just  the  people  who  have  invited  me  and  danced 
with  me,  all  winter  long." 

Rob  looked  up  expectantly. 

"Who  make  up  the  dozen?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  Amy  and  the  rest;   and,  of  course,  Jack." 

Rob's  face  cleared. 

"You'll  have  Jack,  then?" 

And  Sidney  made  swift  answer,  — 

"Why,  of  course." 

"Good  for  you!    I  wondered,  though." 


270  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

But  Sidney  turned  upon  him  in  sudden  exaspera- 
tion. 

"I  hope  you  didn't  think  I'd  have  people  here, 
and  leave  Jack  out." 

Day  interposed  quickly,  for  she  knew  that  the 
two  strong  wills  were  clashing  upon  their  tender 
point. 

"It's  only/'  she  said,  and  a  little  note  of  girlish 
gentleness  crept  hi  to  her  voice;  "it  is  only  because 
Jack  has  said  to  us  all  so  often  that  he  doesn't  fit 
in  with  the  rest." 

But  Sidney  answered  proudly,  — 

"I  should  be  a  poor  sort  of  hostess,  if  I  couldn't 
make  him  fit;  at  least,  for  one  evening.  When  I 
don't  ask  Jack  Blanchard,  I'll  not  be  Sidney  Stayre." 

Rob  rose  and  stood  facing  her,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  his  back  to  the  fire. 

"You  always  were  a  trump,  Sidney,"  he  said 
approvingly.  "  I  wish  there  were  a  few  more  of  your 
sort." 

"When  are  you  going  to  have  it?"  Day  asked,  as 
Sidney  sent  an  answering  nod  to  the  boy  before  her. 

"Some  time  in  Easter  week." 

"Next  week?  You'll  have  to  hurry  up  about  it, 
if  you  mean  to  count  on  Jack." 

"He's  really  going,  then?" 

"Yes.  Wednesday.  Dad  insists  he  needs  the 
change.  Nobody  knows,  though,  what  he'll  do 
without  the  fellow.  All  his  life,  he's  held  the  reins, 
and  now  he  keeps  dropping  them  off  on  Jack.  I 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  271 

don't  know  that  I  wonder,  though."  And  Rob 
paused  to  meditate  upon  the  matter,  his  blue  eyes 
alight  with  love  for  his  friend.  "Did  it  all  myself, 
too,"  he  added.  "I  discovered  Jack,  and  I  stuck 
him  down  the  paternal  throat.  Dad  swallowed  him 
like  a  little  man;  and  then  wasn't  I  scared  for  fear 
the  dose  wouldn't  agree?"  And  Rob  paused  again, 
this  tune  to  chuckle  remmiscently. 

"Yes,  you've  one  good  thing  to  your  account, 
Rob,"  Sidney  assured  him. 

"Make  it  a  pah-."  Rob  held  up  two  fingers,  as 
he  spoke.  "I  introduced  him  to  you." 

"Bungay  did  that.  You  merely  certified  the 
introduction.  But  what  does  Jack  hear  from  his 
mother?"  Sidney  asked,  for  she  had  been  too  busy, 
the  past  few  days,  to  have  a  glimpse  of  either  the 
Argyles  or  of  Jack  himself. 

"Better.  He  had  a  letter,  last  night,  that  said 
she  was  better  than  she  had  been  for  two  years. 
You  ought  to  have  seen  the  fellow;  till  then,  I  really 
hadn't  any  notion  how  much  he  had  been  worrying," 
Rob  said,  with  sudden  gravity.  "It  takes  a  good 
deal  to  make  a  sober  fellow  like  Jack  Blanchard  lose 
his  head  and  behave  like  a  seven-year-old  kid,  the 
way  he  did,  last  night.  It  showed  the  awful  load 
he's  been  carrying,  all  this  time." 

And  Day  added  thoughtfully,  — 

"Yes,  and  he's  been  so  plucky  about  it,  too." 

And  Sidney  echoed  her  words.  Older  than  Day, 
seeing  deeper  than  Rob  had  done,  she  had  realized 


272  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

to  the  full  the  burden  of  anxiety  which  Jack  had 
been  carrying  for  the  past  two  months.  In  the 
first  hour  of  their  meeting,  she  remembered  now, 
Jack  had  spoken  to  her  of  his  mother,  spoken  with 
the  little  reverent  accent  which  many  a  young  man 
is  too  proud  to  use.  Since  that  time  and  before  his 
birthday,  he  had  often  talked  of  the  little  Canadian 
mother  who,  alone  in  Toronto,  lived  in  the  record 
her  son  was  bidding  fair  to  make.  Then  had  come 
Jack's  birthday,  bringing  in  its  train  the  bitter  dis- 
appointment. From  that  time  onward,  Sidney  had 
never  failed  to  feel  a  stiffening  of  her  throat  when  she 
recalled  their  talk  together,  the  look  of  dumb  sorrow 
in  Jack's  keen,  kindly  eyes.  In  looking  back  to 
that  day,  the  girl  was  always  conscious  of  a  dull 
regret  that,  hearing  of  her  friend's  trouble,  she  had 
done  nothing  more  to  help. 

However,  Jack's  memory  was  different.  And,  as 
the  spring  days  had  rolled  by,  he  had  had  many 
a  long  talk  with  Sidney,  telling  her  of  his  mother, 
reading  scraps  of  her  letters  and  gaming  fresh  courage 
from  the  girl's  blithe,  sympathetic  interest  in  all  that 
concerned  himself.  Even  the  very  night  before,  in 
bringing  his  more  reassuring  news,  had  brought  with 
it  the  prompt  resolution  to  seek  Sidney  in  his  earliest 
leisure  moment.  His  earliest  leisure  moment,  how- 
ever, had  not  come  until  that  evening,  and  then  his 
intention  had  been  forestalled  by  Day's  announce- 
ment, as  dinner  drew  to  an  end,  that  she  and  Rob 
were  going  to  start  for  the  Stayre  home,  as  soon  as 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  273 

they  left  the  table.  Nevertheless,  he  refused  their 
invitation  to  go  with  them.  Now  and  then  Jack 
Blanchard  had  a  curious  sense  of  being  quite  alone 
and  kinless  in  the  busy  American  city  where  every  one 
else  appeared  to  have  kin  in  every  street.  In  such 
moments,  he  had  learned  that  he  gamed  his  swiftest 
cure  after  a  talk  alone  with  Sidney  Stayre.  With 
others,  Sidney  could  chatter  with  the  best.  Alone 
with  Jack,  or  Wade,  or  even  Rob  in  one  of  his  rare 
moods  of  seriousness,  the  chatter  failed,  and  the 
strong,  sweet  nature  of  the  girl  stood  forth  in  quiet 
dignity,  a  dignity  too  great  for  many  words. 

Something  of  that  same  mood  was  still  upon  her, 
as,  alone  by  the  fire,  she  sat  thinking  of  Jack  now. 
Rob  and  Day  had  gone,  Wade  was  in  his  room,  and 
Phyllis,  across  the  room,  was  so  still  that  Sidney  had 
quite  forgotten  her  presence.  For  the  time  being, 
she  was  looking  into  the  coals  and  seeing  there  two 
kind  brown  eyes  beneath  their  level  brows,  two 
thin,  clean-cut  lips  which,  despite  all  their  efforts, 
were  not  entirely  steady.  She  lifted  her  head  ab- 
ruptly, as  a  muffled  sniff  fell  on  her  ears. 

"Phil!    Why,  what's  the  matter?" 

Angrily  Phyllis  jerked  off  her  glasses  and  then 
jerked  the  back  of  her  hand  across  her  eyes. 

"Nothing." 

Sidney  glanced  over  her  shoulder,  followed  the 
glance  with  a  long  look,  then  held  out  her  hand. 

"What  is  it,  dear?  Come  here  and  tell  me,"  she  said, 
and  all  the  gentleness  of  her  mood  was  in  her  voice. 


274  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"It's  nothing,  truly.  I'm  —  I'm  only  an  old  fool," 
Phyllis  made  testy  answer. 

Sidney  hesitated,  half  rose  from  her  chair,  sat 
down  again,  then  rose  and  crossed  the  room. 

"What  is  it,  child?"  she  asked  in  wonder,  for 
rarely  had  she  seen  Phyllis  cry. 

But  Phyllis  only  shook  her  head.  Nevertheless, 
she  yielded  to  the  touch  of  Sidney's  arm  around  her 
shoulders.  And  Sidney,  even  in  her  wonder  at  her 
sister's  grief,  had  a  sudden  realization  of  how  rarely 
in  her  life  she  had  dared  to  lay  a  caressing  hand  upon 
her  tempestuous  young  sister. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  she  asked  again. 

"I — I  only  hoped  you'd  want  me,  too,"  Phyllis 
wailed  in  one  tragic  outburst.  "I  sat  here,  and  heard 
you  plan  it  all  out,  and  take  in  Wade,  and  Jack, 
and  everybody  else,  and  —  and  —  you  never  — 
said  —  a  —  single  —  word  about  —  me." 

And  then  Sidney  understood. 

"Phil  dear,"  she  said,  an  hour  later,  as  Phyllis 
lifted  her  tear-stained  face  from  the  shoulder  where 
it  had  rested  so  comfortably  in  its  unaccustomed 
place;  "I've  been  a  good  deal  to  blame;  but  I  never 
supposed  you  cared.  I'm  sorry,  dear;  but  I  know 
you  better  now.  Let's  kiss  each  other,  dearie,  and 
start  again."  And,  in  after  years,  neither  one  of 
them  ever  lost  the  memory  of  that  first  girlish  kiss  of 
mutual  understanding  and  good  will.  Then,  arm  in 
arm,  they  went  away  up  the  stairs  together. 

With  characteristic  promptness,  Phyllis  fell  asleep, 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  275 

that  night,  before  her  lashes  were  fully  dry;  but 
Sidney  lay  awake  for  long,  staring  at  the  darkness 
and  thinking  about  her  younger  sister.  Wade  had 
been  right,  after  all,  she  herself  wrong.  Under  the 
girl's  thorny  surface  was  a  soft  spot,  and  the  soft 
spot  was  all  sore  with  loneliness  and  baffled  self- 
esteem  and  a  sense  of  having  no  one  to  whom  she 
could  turn  for  absolute  understanding.  And  then, 
all  at  once,  Sidney's  cheeks  grew  hot  in  the  darkness, 
as  she  realized  how  it  should  have  been  herself,  not 
Wade,  who  had  first  looked  beneath  the  thorns. 
Self-reliant,  absorbed  in  her  more  congenial  relations 
with  Wade  and  the  Argyles,  had  she  not  been  a 
little  selfish,  too?  Was  it  not  a  little  her  own  fault 
that  Phyllis,  left  to  go  her  way,  had  blundered  into 
skirmishes  with  almost  every  one  she  chanced  to 
meet?  And  Sidney  had  felt  such  keen  responsibility 
for  her  cousin's  content,  for  Rob's  happiness,  for  Jack 
and  Day,  for  everybody,  in  short,  but  Phyllis.  And 
by  rights  they  two,  sisters  and  only  three  short  years 
apart  in  age,  should  have  counted  much  to  each 
other.  In  reality,  they  had  counted  for  nothing. 
Sidney  punched  her  pillow  with  somewhat  of  the 
disgust  she  was  emptying  upon  her  own  head.  And, 
hi  the  end,  Phyllis  had  been  generous  in  letting  the 
bygones  slide  into  the  past.  Her  good-night  kiss, 
the  first  in  many  years,  had  held  no  reservations. 
Sidney,  staring  at  the  dark  with  wide-open  eyes, 
went  over  in  detail  their  talk,  dwelt  in  detail  upon  a 
certain  honest  frankness  which,  her  first  burst  of 


276  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

woe  once  over,  had  marked  her  sister's  mood.  Phyllis 
had  made  no  effort  to  fix  the  blame.  She  had  stated 
only  facts  and  then,  yielding  to  Sidney's  coaxing 
words,  shyly  and  with  many  pauses  she  had  at  last 
confessed  how  much  she  had  craved  for  love. 

"Phil  dear,"  Sidney  had  interrupted  once;  "I 
never  even  dreamed  of  it." 

And  Phyllis  had  made  straightforward  answer,  — 

"I  knew  you  didn't,  Sidney,  and  that  made  it 
all  the  worse.  If  you'd  been  ugly  about  it,  I  should 
have  hated  you;  but,  when  you  didn't  care,  it 
hurt." 

And  at  the  recollection,  Sidney  gave  the  pillow 
another  punch.  Poor  little  old  Phil!  But,  at  least, 
it  was  not  too  late  to  begin  all  over  again.  Hereafter, 
if  they  went  their  separate  ways,  it  should  be  Phyllis's 
own  fault,  not  hers.  And,  with  a  long,  deep  sigh, 
Sidney  dropped  off  into  dreams. 

Out  of  deference  to  Jack  Blanchard's  plans,  Easter 
Tuesday  had  been  set  for  Sidney's  party.  Her  plans 
were  simple:  a  scanty  score  of  guests,  progressive 
euchre  and  a  chafing-dish  supper,  followed  by  a  most 
informal  dance.  Day,  in  a  wonderful  new  frock,  was 
on  hand  early,  together  with  Rob  who,  for  the  first 
time  that  spring,  had  cast  aside  his  stick  in  honour 
of  the  event.  Both  the  brother  and  the  sister  had 
taken  on  themselves  a  goodly  share  of  responsibility 
which  kept  them  from  exchanging  many  words. 
However,  just  as  the  euchre  playing  ended,  Rob 
halted  behind  Day's  chair. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  277 

"Isn't  it  all  exactly  like  Sidney?"  he  demanded, 
too  low  even  for  Day's  partner  to  hear. 

"Exactly.  We  couldn't  make  it  go  like  this. 
Where  is  Jack?" 

Rob  laughed  down  into  his  sister's  questioning  face. 

"Ask  Esther  Remick,"  he  made  terse  reply.  "Jack 
is  holding  his  own  here,  too." 

"Dear  old  thing!  And  he  looks  so  stunning,  to- 
night, in  his  new  clothes." 

Rob  dropped  down  in  the  chair  which  Day's  partner 
had  left. 

"Stunning  or  not,  Day,  he'll  never  look  any  better 
to  me  than  he  used  to  do  hi  the  old  uniform,"  he 
said,  with  sudden  though tfulness.  "Jack  Blanch- 
ard's  clothes  are  a  mere  detail.  It  is  Jack  himself 
that  counts." 

"Rob,"  Day  spoke  with  an  earnestness  that 
matched  his  own;  "do  you  remember  my  birthday 
party?" 

"  'To  give  a  rousing  good  time  to  somebody  who 
didn't  expect  it,  and  couldn't  pay  it  back,  next  day/  " 
Rob  quoted  instantly.  "Yes,  Day,  I  do." 

Leaning  back  in  her  chair,  she  studied  him  in- 
tently, losing,  for  the  moment,  her  own  theme  in  her 
pride  in  her  big,  blond,  happy  brother.  And  it 
counted  much  to  her  that,  all  these  months,  he  had 
held  in  memory  her  careless  words. 

"It  worked  itself  out  rather  well,  Day,"  he  was 
saying;  but  she  ignored  the  phrase. 

Instead,  she  bent  forward  and  rested  her  two  hands 


278  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

on  his,  as  it  lay  across  the  little  table,  fingering  the 
heaped-up,  disordered  cards. 

"Rob,"  she  said  impulsively;  "I  talk  about  Sidney 
and  Jack  and  all  the  rest;  but  I  believe  that  there's  no- 
body else  who  really  counts  for  much  to  me  but  you." 

One  by  one,  with  chatter  and  laughter,  the  others 
had  dropped  away,  following  Sidney's  lead  towards 
the  dining-room  where  the  chafing  dishes  stood  ready 
for  their  work.  In  the  parlour  beside  the  abandoned 
table,  the  brother  and  sister  sat  alone,  and  the  room 
grew  very  still.  For  a  long  minute,  and  for  another 
and  another  yet,  they  sat  there  facing  each  other 
above  the  disordered  cards,  the  vigorous  young  boy, 
the  dainty  girl.  Then,  as  their  eyes  met  in  one  look 
of  perfect  understanding,  Rob  laid  his  other  hand 
across  Day's  fingers. 

"Little  girl,"  he  answered,  with  a  sudden  tenderness 
which  brought  a  darker,  deeper  light  to  his  blue  eyes; 
"  I  learned  my  lesson  a  good  many  months  ago.  There 
are  plenty  of  other  people;  but  there  is  just  one  Day." 

Their  hands  and  eyes  meeting,  they  sat  there  silent, 
regardless  for  the  moment  that,  as  a  rule,  a  party 
was  not  the  place  for  the  exchange  of  family  affection. 
Then,  of  a  sudden,  Day  drew  back  her  hands  and 
sprang  upon  her  feet. 

"Rob,  what's  wrong?"  she  demanded,  and  her 
voice  was  sharp  with  fear. 

From  the  dining-room  at  the  farther  corner  of  the 
house,  there  had  come  a  frightened,  high-pitched 
little  scream,  the  scream  of  the  young  girl  who  thinks 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  279 

that,  after  all,  not  much  is  the  matter.  The  scream, 
short  and  perfunctory,  had  been  followed  by  a  sudden 
clamour  of  many  voices,  dominated  at  last  by  two 
shrieks,  the  one  of  honest  fear,  the  other  of  bitter 
pain.  Only  an  instant  later  and  before  Rob's  weak 
leg  had  steadied  to  his  weight,  Jack  Blanchard  came 
dashing  through  the  door,  caught  up  a  heavy  rug  and 
dashed  headlong  back  again  in  the  direction  of  the 
clamour  which  was  increasing  fast. 

"Rob!  It's  fire!  Come  quick.  We  may  be  able  to 
help."  And  Day,  white  with  fear,  yet  laid  a  steady 
hand  upon  Rob's  arm  and  dragged  him  swiftly  after 
Jack. 

The  hall  seemed  endless  to  her;  the  clamour  seemed 
able  to  pierce  the  walls  and  roof,  as  they  drew  nearer  to 
the  door  whence  came  the  cries.  Then,  on  the  thresh- 
old, Day  shut  her  eyes  and  leaned  for  an  instant  against 
Rob's  sturdy  shoulder.  Her  first  hurried  glance  had 
showed  her  the  scarlet  flame  creeping  out  in  an  angry 
little  circle  around  the  larger  chafing  dish,  had  showed 
her,  too,  the  licking  tongues  of  flame  that  crept  and 
crawled  and  danced  up  one  whole  side  of  Phyllis's 
soft,  thin  frock.  Her  second  glance  had  showed  her 
Jack,  casting  the  rug  about  the  girl  and  bending  down 
to  roll  it  even  more  tightly  yet  about  her  writhing 
form,  just  as  Esther  Remick,  springing  backward, 
collided  with  the  other  dish  and  turned  the  blazing 
alcohol  straight  down  upon  them  both,  deluging 
them  both  beneath  a  rain  of  fire  which  broke  into  a 
flaming  rainbow  as  it  fell. 


280  DAY;  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 


n 


IVrOBODY  but  you  and  Jack,  dearie,"  Sidney 
answered  gently,  as  she  bent  over  Phyllis  to 
give  her  a  drink  of  water. 

"And  was  Jack-  The  words  stuck  fast  in 
Phyllis's  throat;  but  the  terror  which  was  in  her 
eyes  completed  the  unspoken  question. 

Sidney  hesitated.     Then,  — 

"A  little  bit  more  than  you  were,  Phil,"  she  con- 
fessed. 

The  glass  clinked  against  the  girl's  shaking  teeth. 
Then  she  drew  back  her  head  and  pushed  the  glass 
aside  with  an  imperious  gesture. 

"Tell  me  truly,  Sidney.  I  must  know.  How  bad 
is  it?" 

"It's  not  dangerous,  dear.  He  is  badly  burned, 
and  he  may  be  in  bed  for  quite  a  while.  He'll  come 
out  of  it,  though,  in  time." 

"Truly?" 

"Truly." 

There  came  a  long,  long  silence.  When  Phyllis 
spoke,  her  voice  was  pitiful  in  its  appeal  for  good  news. 

"And  not  be  scarred,  Sidney?" 

Purposely  Sidney  misunderstood  her. 

"No,  dearie,"  she  said  as  lightly  as  she  was  able. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  281 

"The  doctor  said  you  wouldn't  show  a  scratch  any- 
where." 

"I  don't  mean  me,"  Phyllis  said,  with  a  touch  of 
her  old  temper.  "It  wouldn't  do  any  harm,  if  I  were; 
I  never  was  much  to  look  at.  But  Jack,  will  he  be 
scarred?" 

Child  as  she  was,  her  glance  was  compelling,  and 
Sidney  felt  herself  forced  to  answer  truly. 

"A  little." 

" Much?    Tell  me  it  all,"  Phyllis  demanded  sharply. 

"A  good  deal." 

"Where?" 

"On  the  side  of  his  face." 

"Sidney!  Surely?  Isn't  there  anything  that  can 
be  done?"  And,  regardless  of  her  swathed  condition, 
Phyllis  sat  upright  and  stared  at  her  sister  with 
anguished  eyes.  "Not  anything?"  She  dropped 
back  again  and  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow.  "And 
he  did  it  all  for  horrid,  ugly  me!"  she  moaned.  "Sid- 
ney, what  can  I  do?" 

"Get  well  as  fast  as  you  can,  dear,"  Sidney  made 
soothing  answer,  for  she  was  shocked  by  the  girl's 
sudden  grief  and  alarmed  lest  the  excitement  bring 
back  the  fever  which  had  followed  the  nervous  shock 
and  the  pain  of  the  burns.  "Then  you  can  go  to  see 
Jack,  and  tell  him  how  grateful  we  all  are." 

"Tell  him!"  Phyllis's  tone  rang  hard  in  its  scorn. 
"Words  can't  tell  things,  Sidney,  not  the  real  things 
one  feels.  And,  all  the  time  he's  been  here  in  New 
York,  I've  treated  him  just  as  abominably  as  I  knew 


282  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

how  to  do,  not  for  any  reason,  either.  And  now," 
once  more  the  pillow  muffled  her  voice;  "and  now 
he's  saved  my  life  and  made  himself  ill,  and  spoiled 
his  good  looks  for  ever  and  ever  and  ever." 

"Perhaps  not  so  bad  as  that,  Phil,"  Sidney  made 
reassuring  answer. 

"How  much,  then?"  Phyllis  demanded  breath- 
lessly. 

"They  can't  tell  how  much  yet.  One  cheek  may 
be  scarred  a  good  deal,  and  it  may  even  run  up  across 
his  eyebrow.  It  is  too  bad;  I  am  as  sorry  as  you  are." 

"You  are  not,"  Phyllis  contradicted  her,  in  a  fresh 
wave  of  grief.  "You  didn't  do  it.  I  did." 

"It  was  my  party."  Sidney's  accent  showed  that 
this  was  by  no  means  the  first  time  the  accusing  idea 
had  occurred  to  her. 

"What  of  that?  You  didn't  joggle  out  the  alcohol 
in  the  first  place,  and  you  didn't  go  and  dip  your  sleeve 
into  it,  either.  It  was  all  my  fault.  I  was  ugly  and 
horrid  before,  and  then  I  was  careless;  and  Jack  has 
got  to  pay  the  penalty  of  it  all."  And  Phyllis  writhed 
with  a  pain  which  did  not  come  entirely  from  her 
own  burns. 

Sidney  laid  a  steadying  hand  upon  the  restless 
brown  head. 

"Phil  dear,  you  must  try  to  keep  as  quiet  as  you 
can,"  she  said  firmly.  "I  am  sorry,  too,  more  sorry 
than  I  can  say.  It  is  all  dreadful;  but,  even  now, 
it  might  be  worse.  Jack  might  have  been  burned 
to  death,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Wade  and  father.  As 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  283 

it  is,  he  will  be  laid  up  for  a  while,  and  he  may  have 
some  scars;  but  it  was  really  a  wonderful  escape 
for  you  both.  Let's  try  to  think  of  that,  dear,  and 
forget  the  rest." 

"I  can't  forget  it,  Sidney."  Phyllis's  voice  was 
high  and  insistent. 

"Then  try  to  think  about  the  better  side  of  it," 
Sidney  urged.  "Try  to  keep  as  quiet  as  you  can, 
Phil,  and  rest.  Do  it  for  your  own  sake,  dear,  and 
a  little  bit  for  Jack's." 

"  Jack's?  "  Phyllis  looked  up  with  wondering  eyes, 
and  Sidney  saw  that  she  had  unwittingly  touched 
the  right  chord. 

"For  Jack's,"  she  repeated.  "Grow  strong  as  fast 
as  you  can,  Phil,  and  then  perhaps  there  will  be 
something  you  can  find  to  do  for  poor  old  Jack." 
Her  own  voice  dropped  a  little  over  the  final  words. 

Obediently  Phyllis  yielded  to  her  touch,  yielded 
and  closed  her  eyes.  For  long  she  lay  so  still  that 
Sidney  thought  she  must  have  dropped  to  sleep. 
Then,  as  Sidney  stirred,  the  girl  opened  her  eyes  once 
more. 

"Sidney,  you're  good  to  me,"  she  said  slowly. 
"I  —  I  wish  I  hadn't  always  been  a  little  beast." 

Meanwhile,  in  the  Argyle  house,  a  trained  nurse  in 
cap  and  pinafore  was  ruling  over  Jack's  room,  and 
Day  herself  was  ruling  over  the  trained  nurse. 

It  was  now  three  days  and  nights  since  Rob's  in- 
sistent summons  had  brought  his  father  to  the  tele- 
phone. Mr.  Argyle  had  grown  white  to  the  lips  as  he 


284  DAY:  HER  YEAR  L\  NEW  YORK 

listened  to  the  short,  crisp  message.  A  moment  later, 
he  was  leaping  into  the  automobile  of  the  friend  who 
chanced  to  be  calling  on  him;  and,  before  he  fully 
realized  the  nature  of  his  errand,  they  were  stopping 
to  pick  up  the  doctor  on  the  way,  then  speeding 
through  the  city  streets  towards  the  Stayre  home. 
Rob  met  him  on  the  steps.  He  too  was  ashy  white, 
and  a  blue  ring  outlined  his  lips;  but  his  voice  was 
quite  steady. 

"Dad!  At  last!  Jack's  in  the  parlour.  I'm 
afraid  it's  pretty  bad." 

Then,  for  there  was  nothing  he  could  do,  he  had 
gone  in  search  of  Day.  He  found  her  hidden  in  a 
corner,  her  face  buried  in  her  crumpled  skirt;  but  she 
made  no  resistance,  as  he  drew  away  her  hands. 

"Day,"  he  said  quietly;  "there'll  be  lots  of  things 
for  us  to  do,  to-nigat.  I  think  you'd  better  get  your 
cloak,  and  we'll  go  home  and  help  mother  put  Jack's 
room  to  rights  for  him,  before  they  bring  him  home." 

Jack  himself  never  remembered  anything  of  that 
wild  rush  for  home.  Another  doctor  had  come  for 
Phyllis;  tlie  Argyles  could  do  nothing  there,  and  the 
doctor  declared  Jack  would  better  be  moved  now 
than  later  on.  The  streets  were  wellnigh  empty  at 
that  hour,  and  even  the  doctor  held  his  breath  as 
they  tore  madly  along  the  deserted  pavements,  cut- 
ting the  stillness  with  their  clanging  gong  whose  in- 
sistent note  seemed  to  the  men  behind  to  bear  its 
tragic  message  into  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the 
silent  streets.  Nevertheless,  the  doctor  had  ordered 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  285 

haste  and  that  the  utmost,  and  now  it  was  not  for 
him  to  flinch.  There  was  risk  in  such  a  speed  as 
theirs;  but,  as  he  glanced  down  at  the  stalwart  figure 
huddled  against  his  side,  down  at  the  honest,  earnest 
face,  he  felt  that  the  risk  was  rightly  taken.  Burns 
such  as  those  were  not  to  be  toyed  with.  Moreover, 
he  had  seen  Jack  often,  and  seeing,  he  knew  he  was 
well  worth  the  saving. 

It  was  a  night  of  turmoil  at  the  Argyle  house.  The 
nurse  was  there  by  midnight,  and  the  doctor  stayed 
till  dawn. 

"Don't  spare  anything/'  Mr.  Argyle  had  bidden 
him  briefly.  "Blanchard  is  my  own  right  hand. 
Save  him  at  any  cost."  And  the  doctor  had  nodded, 
as  he  had  tossed  aside  his  coat  and  bared  his  arms  to 
work. 

It  was  not  until  late  the  next  afternoon  that  Day 
was  admitted  to  Jack's  room.  All  the  morning  long, 
she  had  hung  about  outside  his  door,  begging  to  be 
allowed  to  go  inside,  if  only  for  a  moment;  but  the 
nurse  had  merely  smiled  and  shaken  her  head.  As 
yet  the  girl  was  too  unsteady  from  the  shock  to  be 
permitted  inside  the  room.  Late  in  the  day,  how- 
ever, she  pulled  herself  together  with  an  effort,  and 
showed  herself,  smiling  bravely,  to  the  nurse.  For  a 
long  moment,  the  woman  looked  down  into  the  wan 
face;  then  she  said,  — 

"Come;  but  only  for  a  minute." 

Once  inside,  however,  Day  remained.  From  the 
threshold,  she  had  heard  Jack's  feeble  hail,  and,  sum- 


286  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

monmg  all  her  courage,  she  had  crossed  the  room  to 
take  his  hand,  sturdily  resolved  to  make  good  her 
welcome  by  bringing  to  him  what  blitheness  she  could. 
The  day  was  dying  and  the  light  was  too  dim  for  Jack 
to  make  out  her  pallor.  He  only  saw  her  smiling 
lips,  and  heard  the  merry,  saucy  words  of  greeting 
which  brought  the  dimples  to  her  cheeks,  turning  her 
to  the  semblance  of  the  Day  he  knew  so  well.  And 
Day  never  winced,  although  it  was  taking  all  her  girl- 
ish strength  to  stand  there,  talking  merry  nonsense, 
while  she  was  looking  down  upon  the  face  before  her, 
white  as  the  folds  of  linen  that  covered  more  than 
half  of  it  from  sight.  As  so  often  happens,  though, 
her  strength  rose  to  meet  the  strain  she  put  upon  it. 
For  an  instant,  she  bent  down  to  smooth  the  pillow 
and  touch  the  crisp  brown  hair  with  gentle,  strong 
hands;  then  she  straightened  up  once  more,  and  stood 
looking  down  at  Jack  with  eyes  that  never  faltered. 

"It  was  just  exactly  like  you,  Jack,"  was  all  she 
said;  but  Jack's  hand  came  out  from  under  the 
blanket  and  shut  upon  her  fingers. 

Later,  she  turned  to  the  nurse. 

"  You'd  best  go  down  to  dinner  now,"  she  said 
calmly.  ."I  will  see  to  Jack." 

And,  much  to  Day's  surprise,  the  nurse  went. 
Neither  Jack  nor  Day,  however,  had  seen  the  woman's 
careful  scrutiny  of  her  young  assistant,  the  way  she 
had  taken  note  of  every  blithe,  carefree  word,  every 
deft  touch,  every  answering  smile  that  had  crossed 
that  fraction  of  Jack's  face  which  she  had  left  in 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  287 

sight.  For  twenty  critical  minutes,  Day's  fate,  in  so 
far  as  the  sickroom  was  concerned,  had  trembled  in 
the  balance.  At  the  end  of  twenty  minutes,  the 
nurse  had  gone  away  without  demur,  to  eat  a  leis- 
urely dinner  and  take  a  half-hour  sleep. 

"Steady  as  a  die,  and  tender,  too,"  she  told  the 
doctor,  that  same  night.  "It  is  going  to  be  a  long, 
hard  case,  and  she  will  be  invaluable,  before  we  are 
through.  He  needs  the  child  to  keep  him  from 
worrying  about  himself,  and  the  time  will  come,  be- 
fore so  very  long,  that  she'll  be  worth  a  dozen 
doctors." 

And  now  it  was  two  days  later,  and  once  again  the 
nurse  had  gone  away  to  dine  and  rest,  leaving  Day  in 
full  possession.  This  time,  Rob  was  also  in  the  room, 
settled  in  a  great  chair  beside  the  bed,  with  Day 
curled  up  on  the  floor  at  his  feet,  her  cheek  resting 
against  her  brother's  knee.  Jack,  propped  up  against 
a  heap  of  pillows  and  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a 
half-unwrapped  mummy,  surveyed  them  benignly 
from  his  one  available  eye. 

"What  is  the  news  from  Phil?"  he  asked  abruptly 
at  length. 

"Coming  up  like  a  bramble  in  her  usual  unsup- 
pressable  fashion,"  Rob  answered,  as  he  folded  his 
arms  at  the  back  of  his  head.  "Day,  I  am  devoted 
to  you;  but  do  just  hitch  your  brains  along  a  little 
bit.  My  foot  is  going  to  sleep." 

Obediently  Day  moved  her  head  across  to  the 
other  knee,  while  she  made  languid  comment,  — 


288  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW 


"Somehow  I  never  seemed  to  get  up  much  worry 
over  Phil." 

"You  did  all  right,  the  other  night,"  Rob  reminded 
her.  "I  had  you  hanging  in  a  soggy  bunch  all  over 
my  arms,  young  woman." 

Day  cast  a  mocking  glance  up  at  the  swaddled 
figure  in  the  bed. 

"Oh,  that  was  just  for  Jack,  you  know.  I  was 
afraid  he'd  spoil  the  Stayres'  best  rug." 

"I  was  more  afraid  he'd  spoil  himself,"  Rob  ob- 
served. "What  were  you  asking,  Jack?" 

"Whether  Phyllis  really  is  much  burned." 

"Not  nearly  so  much  as  you  were."  Day  rose,  as 
she  spoke,  and  took  a  chair  beside  the  bed  where 
Jack  could  watch  her  without  effort  while  she  talked. 
"It  is  uncomfortable,  of  course;  but  it  isn't  very 
deep,  thanks  to  you,  and  the  doctor  says  she'll  be  up 
and  about  the  house  in  a  day  or  two." 

"Where  did  it  catch  her?" 

"In  her  arm  and  shoulder.  Sidney  says  it  is  the 
worst  just  above  the  elbow." 

"Likewise  in  her  conscience,"  Rob  struck  in. 
"Wade  says  she  is  beating  her  breast  over  the  ruin 
she  has  made  of  you." 

"Serve  her  right,  too,"  Day  said  a  little  sharply. 
"She's  always  been  detestable  to  you,  Jack;  she 
doesn't  begin  to  deserve  all  you  did  for  her." 

With  a  slight  shake  of  his  head,  Jack  brushed  her 
words  aside  and  turned  to  Rob. 

"Wade?    You've  seen  him,  then?" 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  289 

"He's  here,  every  night,  to  ask  for  you." 

"Really?"    Jack's  face  showed  his  pleasure. 

"Sure.  He  is  anxious  to  hear,  of  course.  Besides, 
I  fancy  Sidney  would  send  him,  if  he  didn't  come, 
himself.  She's  taking  all  the  care  of  Phil,  and  she 
probably  has  her  hands  full;  but  she  telephones, 
three  times  a  day,  as  'tis." 

"At  least,  I  can't  complain  that  I'm  not  getting 
my  fair  share  of  attention,"  Jack  observed.  "Next 
time  she  telephones,  tell  her  I'm  all  right,  and  will 
make  my  party  call  in  the  course  of  the  next  few 
weeks." 

"She'll  be  here,  herself,  before  then,"  Rob  pre- 
dicted. "She's  a  good  sort  to  have  around  you,  too, 
when  you're  lying  up  for  repairs.  I  had  a  taste  of  it, 
last  winter,  when  I  was  down  here,  and  I  found  her 
a  great  source  of  consolation  now  and  then." 

But  Jack's  smile  was  all  for  Day. 

"Thanks,"  he  said  tersely.     "I'm  content  as  'tis." 

There  followed  one  of  the  long,  long  pauses  which 
had  come  so  often  in  those  last  three  days.  Strong 
and  rugged  as  he  had  always  been,  the  nervous  shock 
had  told  upon  Jack  to  a  surprising  extent,  and  as  yet 
there  had  been  no  cessation  in  the  pain  of  his  burns. 
Weakened  by  both  the  shock  and  the  pain,  Jack  was 
able  to  talk  but  little  and  at  fitful  intervals,  broken 
by  silences  when  his  lips  shut  tight  together  and  his 
colour  changed  from  white  to  dark,  dark  red  and  then 
to  ashy  gray.  In  intervals  such  as  that,  Day  watched 
him  in  silent  pity,  either  sitting  motionless  with  bated 


290  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

breath,  or  else  resting  one  cool,  firm  hand  upon  his 
restless  fingers,  while  Rob,  powerless  to  help,  could 
only  shut  his  eyes  and  wait  for  the  interval  to  pass  by. 

Suddenly  and  out  of  the  silence,  Jack  spoke  again. 

"Day,"  he  asked;  "how  much  is  this  going  to 
make  a  mess  of  my  manly  beauty?" 

For  eight  and  forty  hours,  the  girl  had  been  dread- 
ing the  question.  Now  that  it  had  come,  she  parried 
it  without  flinching. 

"Vain  creature!  Not  so  much  as  you  might 
think." 

He  smiled. 

"That  depends  on  what  I'm  thinking.  I  don't 
mean  to  funk  a  side  issue;  but  I'd  rather  not  be  too 
hideous.  Just  how  bad  will  it  be,  Day?" 

Too  late,  the  girl  regretted  that  she  had  abandoned 
her  old  place  on  the  floor  at  Rob's  knee.  There,  Jack 
could  only  see  her  profile;  now  he  could  search  her  full 
face  for  the  pitiless,  cruel  truth.  Nevertheless,  she 
tried  to  evade  his  question. 

"We  can't  tell  yet,  Jack;  but  we  hope  it  may  not 
be  so  very  bad." 

His  lips  tightened.     Then  he  spoke  again. 

"Hope.  Hm!  Then  it  means  yes."  He  drew  a 
long,  deep  breath.  "Sorry,"  he  added  briefly.  "I 
haven't  any  beauty  to  waste.  In  a  case  like  this,  it's 
supposed  to  be  the  decent  thing  to  cart  off  all  the 
mirrors.  You  haven't  done  that,  so  I  suppose  it 
might  be  worse."  Evidently  he  was  talking  at  ran- 
dom, to  gain  time  to  steady  himself.  At  last  he 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  291 

turned  to  Rob.  "Tell  me  the  exact,  literal  truth," 
he  demanded  then.  "It's  mean  to  work  it  out  of 
Day;  but  you're  a  boy  and  don't  mind." 

"  Mind ! "  The  word  came  through  Rob's  shut  teeth. 

"Not  so  much.  Besides,  you've  had  your  own 
bad  times,  and  know  it's  easiest  to  get  the  worst 
over  as  soon  as  possible,"  Jack  told  him.  "Out 
with  it,  then.  I'm  to  be  scarred?" 

"Yes." 

"Much?" 

"A  good  deal." 

"Where?" 

"The  left  eyebrow  and  temple." 

Jack  sat  up  sharply. 

"My  eye  is  all  right?" 

"Yes.  Truly,  Jack,  there  isn't  any  trouble  there," 
Day  assured  him  hurriedly,  for  she  read  the  terror 
in  his  voice. 

Sternly  he  turned  upon  her. 

"Sure?  It's  not  a  time  for  lying,"  he  said,  and  the 
terror  was  still  hi  his  voice. 

Quickly  Day  rose  and,  moving  to  his  head,  sat 
down  beside  him  and  took  his  hand. 

"Jack,"  she  said  steadily;  "as  I  am  living  and 
sitting  here  by  you,  your  eye  is  safe.  Since  the  very 
first  night,  the  doctor  hasn't  had  a  bit  of  fear.  No, 
listen.  It's  better  you  should  know  just  how  it  is. 
Then  you  won't  worry,  when  we're  not  here  to  ask. 
That  first  awful  night,  the  doctor  didn't  know  just 
what  had  happened  to  you;  it  all  looked  rather  bad. 


292  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  XEW  YORK 

Now,  though,  the  worst  is  over,  all  but  the  pain.  It 
is  going  to  be  a  good  while,  perhaps,  before  you're 
up  and  out  again;  your  cheek  may  be  scarred.  But, 
in  the  end,  you're  coming  out  all  right." 

Jack's  face  was  turned  towards  her;  his  look  was 
appealing. 

"On  your  honour,  Day?" 

"Yes,  Jack,  upon  my  whole  honour." 

He  settled  back  again  against  the  pillows  and  lay 
quite  still,  watching  the  changing  colour  in  her 
cheeks,  the  gentleness  of  all  her  girlish  motions. 

"Day,"  he  said  quietly  at  last;  "this  hasn't  been 
an  easy  telling  for  you,  child." 

"No,  Jack;  it  hasn't,"  she  confessed.  "I  hate 
the  hurting  you." 

"I'd  rather  you  did  it  than  anybody  else,  you 
and  Rob,"  he  answered.  "If  one  turns  baby,  he'd 
rather  do  it  when  only  his  best  friends  are  about. 
I  never  was  much  on  beauty;  but  I  hate  the  thought 
of  being  too  hideous.  Day,"  he  started  up  again, 
as  a  new  fear  crossed  his  mind;  "it  won't  knock  me 
out  in  my  work;  will  it?" 

"Nonsense."  Day  laughed  a  little,  as  she  spoke, 
and  the  laugh  steadied  all  their  nerves.  "My  father 
would  think  he  needed  you  and  must  have  you,  if 
you'd  burned  your  head  completely  off.  No;  you'll 
be  back  in  the  office  long  before  we  go  out  to  Heather- 
leigh." 

"Praise  be  for  so  much!"  Jack  returned,  and  his 
voice  had  a  trace  of  its  old  hearty  ring.  "I  could 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  XEW  YORK  293 

put  up  with  a  good  many  other  things  in  life  a  good 
deal  more  easily  than  giving  up  my  work.  If  that's 
all  right,  and  my  eye  is  safe,  I'll  pull  through  the  rest, 
somehow  or  other." 

Day,  leaning  on  her  elbow  and  playing  with  the 
hem  of  the  pillow-case,  was  on  his  swaddled  side  and 
out  of  range.  Rob,  however,  watching  her  acutely 
and  marvelling  at  the  girlish  courage  which  had  held 
out  through  these  last  hard  moments  of  question 
and  reply,  saw  two  great,  shining  tears  fall  on  the 
pillow  at  Jack's  side,  and  yet  another  two.  Seeing, 
he  held  his  breath  in  fear.  If  Day  gave  in  now, 
Jack  would  be  convinced  that  all  her  reassuring 
words  held  only  the  scantest  grain  of  truth.  And 
Rob  knew  more  than  Day,  for  he  had  heard  the  ifs 
which  had  framed  in  the  doctor's  verdict.  If  Day's 
courage  had  failed  her,  he  knew  he  could  never  force 
himself  to  take  her  place.  Hour  after  hour,  he  had 
grown  sick  at  heart,  as  he  had  sat  there  beside  the 
silent,  plucky  friend  for  whom  he  had  learned  to 
care  with  a  love  second  only  to  that  which  he  had 
long  since  given  Day.  Rob  Argyle  was  no  coward; 
neither  did  he  lack  the  will  to  stand  by  his  chief 
friend  in  the  black  hours  of  illness.  Nevertheless., 
he  knew  quite  well  that,  in  a  case  like  this,  a  woman's 
nervous  strength  is  needed.  And  now  Day's  tears 
were  dropping  fast. 

Jack,  meanwhile,  lay  very  still,  his  lips  shut  firmly 
and  his  one  useful  eye  fixed  upon  the  opposite  wall. 
At  last,  however,  he  turned  his  head  to  speak  to  Day, 


294  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

and  Rob's  breath  grew  short  with  fear.  But  Day 
was  ready  for  him  and,  with  a  sudden  gesture,  she 
buried  her  face  out  of  sight  among  the  pillows. 

"Oh,  Jack,  for  shame!"  she  gasped,  with  a  nervous 
little  giggle  which  sounded  quite  genuine  to  his  anx- 
ious ears.  "The  idea  of  going  through  the  Boer  war 
safe  and  sound,  just  to  come  to  utter  destruction  on 
a  lobster  newburg!" 

And  Jack's  laugh,  echoing  hers,  had  its  wonted 
jolly  ring,  in  spite  of  the  swaddling  folds  of  linen 
that  covered  his  blistered,  aching  face. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  295 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

TT  was  middle  May;  and  Jack  Blanchard,  conven- 
-*-  tionally  clothed  as  to  his  body,  but  with  his 
face  still  resembling  a  half-unwrapped  mummy, 
had  been  for  a  drive  in  the  Park  with  Amy  Browne. 
Jack  had  felt  no  especial  drawing  towards  Amy  and 
her  hospitality,  and  had  already  refused  four  or  five 
invitations  to  drive  with  her,  offering  every  possible 
excuse  from  feebleness  to  vanity.  His  last  excuse 
had  vanished,  however,  when  Amy  had  stopped,  one 
day,  to  inquire  for  the  shut-in  invalid,  to  meet  on 
the  threshold  the  invalid,  happy  and  hilarious,  just 
returning  from  a  drive  with  Day.  After  that,  Jack 
confessed  to  himself  that  his  fate  was  in  Amy's  hands. 
She  was  a  pretty  child  and  a  kindly  one;  he  had  no 
wish  to  hurt  her  by  a  curt  and  reasonless  refusal  of 
her  offers.  He  writhed  a  little  over  her  evident  wish 
to  make  public  retraction  of  her  former  disregard  of 
him;  nevertheless,  he  argued  that  there  had  never 
been  any  especial  reason  she  should  have  noticed 
him  before,  nor  was  there  especial  cause  for  her 
noticing  him  now.  She  was  merely  a  warm-hearted 
little  girl  who  felt  that  she  had  never  been  too  gracious 
to  Day's  friend.  Now  that  the  friend  had  proved 
his  worth,  she  was  eager  to  show  her  appreciation. 


296  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Jack  had  laughed  a  little,  yielded,  and  gone  for  the 
drive. 

Jack  had  been  down-stairs  for  ten  days  now,  and 
was  already  slipping  back  into  his  old  place  in  the 
family  routine.  The  office,  however,  was  still  de- 
barred, for  the  doctor,  using  every  effort  in  his  power 
to  diminish  the  scars,  still  kept  Jack's  face  in  a  mum- 
mified condition  which  would  have  been  most  un- 
seemly, viewed  above  an  office  desk.  Reading  was 
still  a  good  deal  out  of  the  question,  too;  and  Jack 
spent  his  hours  in  idle  lounging  about  the  house,  in 
going  for  a  daily  drive  and,  as  the  evenings  grew 
warmer,  in  walking  with  Rob  under  the  trees  in  the 
Park  which  every  day  was  turning  to  a  deeper, 
richer  green.  It  was  a  monotonous  sort  of  life  at 
best.  Jack  took  it  with  exemplary  patience,  laughed 
at  the  shortness  of  his  present  tether  and  tried  to 
look  forward  with  good  hope  to  the  future.  None 
the  less,  he  confessed  to  himself  that  the  long,  idle 
hours  bored  him  to  the  very  verge  of  mutiny.  The 
Easter  holiday  had  ended;  Rob  and  Day  were  back 
again  at  work,  straining  every  nerve  to  come  through 
the  final  run  victoriously  and  enter  college  with 
flying  colours.  Every  spare  hour  they  owned  they 
gave  to  Jack.  They  even,  for  his  sake,  broke  in  upon 
their  habit  of  preparing  their  lessons  side  by  side, 
in  order  to  double  the  time  they  could  devote  to  his 
amusement.  Sidney,  too,  was  equally  busy,  for, 
in  addition  to  her  own  school  work,  she  was  much 
at  home  with  the  younger  children  who  appeared  to 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  297 

be  vying  with  one  another  as  to  which  should  have 
the  most  colds  and  develop  the  greatest  amount  of 
consequent  fractiousness. 

Left  to  himself,  then,  and  to  his  own  curtailed 
resources,  Jack  found  his  drive  with  Amy  far  less 
of  a  bore  than  he  had  given  himself  to  expect.  Friv- 
olous and  dainty,  Amy  was  yet  kindness  itself,  once 
her  girlish  sympathies  were  aroused;  not  even  Day 
herself  could  have  shown  a  greater  care  for  his  com- 
fort. True,  she  had  no  especial  interests,  and  her 
brain  was  about  as  much  developed  as  that  of  the 
average  guinea  fowl;  but  she  owned  a  good  deal  of 
quaint  and  ready  wit,  and  her  gay  chatter  was  unfail- 
ing. Added  to  that,  absolute  leisure,  some  beauty 
and  great  and  good-tempered  tact  made  the  girl  no 
mean  companion  for  a  drive  through  the  warm  May 
sunshine.  Jack  stretched  his  long  legs  out  at  ease, 
and  answered  her  chatter  in  kind  until  his  years 
dropped  off  him  and  he  seemed  to  her  a  great,  jolly 
boy  and  born  of  her  own  set. 

"Are  you  tired?"  she  asked,  as  they  reached  the 
northern  end  of  the  Park;  "or  shall  we  go  on  to 
Riverside?" 

"I  don't  get  tired  any  longer.  I  stopped  all  that, 
a  week  ago,"  he  answered. 

Amy  nodded  to  the  coachman.    Then  she  said,  — 

"You'll  be  as  well  as  ever,  before  you  know  it." 

"All  but  my  manly  brow,"  Jack  told  her,  with  a 

little  smile  which  somehow  made  Amy  realize  that 

her  heart  was  constructed  of  something  besides  saw- 


298  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

dust.  "I  haven't  seen  it  yet;  they  don't  encourage 
my  gazing  at  myself,  but  I  fancy  it  is  in  a  good  deal 
of  a  mess." 

"It  may  be  a  good  deal  better  than  you  think," 
she  assured  him  quickly. 

"Also  it  may  be  worse.  Still,"  he  added  philo- 
sophically; "at  least,  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  get  my 
other  eye  out  of  cold  storage.  Even  the  best  absorb- 
ent cotton  becomes  monotonous  in  time." 

There  was  no  dropping  of  his  voice,  no  minor 
cadence.  Three  weeks  before  that  day  and  alone 
in  his  room,  Jack  Blanchard  had  made  his  moan  once 
and  for  all.  Owning  two  keen  eyes  and  a  mirror,  he 
had  not  failed  to  know  that,  while  not  a  wonderful 
beauty,  he  yet  possessed  more  than  his  own  share 
of  attractiveness.  It  was  not  easy  for  him,  just  as  his 
life  was  opening  out  before  him,  to  have  that  attrac- 
tiveness snatched  from  him,  all  in  an  hour  and  from 
such  ignominious  cause.  A  leaky  chafing  dish,  hired 
to  match  Sidney's  own,  a  careless  jostling  of  the 
lamp,  a  blazing  muslin  frock:  all  these  were  trifling 
details;  but,  for  Jack  Blanchard,  their  results  were 
mounting  mountains  high.  Nevertheless,  Jack  was 
of  good  stuff,  well  trained.  It  had  happened  badly; 
but  he  would  accept  it  as  it  came.  Whining  never 
helped  a  bad  matter  to  right  itself. 

And  Amy,  shallow,  kindly  Amy,  listening  to  his 
brave  young  voice,  had  a  swift  glimpse  of  all  that 
it  implied.  She  turned  to  him  with  girlish  impulsive- 
ness. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  299 

"Jack,  you're  very  plucky,"  she  said. 

He  laughed  out  in  his  old  hearty  way. 

"Not  so  very.  Besides,  there's  no  especial  sense 
in  tearing  my  hair,  even  if  I  could  get  at  it.  I  can't 
say  I  enjoy  my  present  decorations,  though." 

"When  do  they  let  you  out?" 

"Two  weeks,  the  doctor  said." 

"Jack,  it's  endless,"  Amy  protested. 

"Pretty  near.  Still,  it  may  prove  worth  the  while. 
They  say  I'm  not  so  appalling  a  vision  as  I  was  at  first." 

"And  then  you'll  go  back  into  the  office?"  she 
asked,  trying  to  draw  the  talk  away  from  dangerous 
ground,  for  Day  had  been  in  the  room,  during  one  of 
the  doctor's  visits,  and  Amy  knew  what  Day  had  seen. 

"I  think  so,  for  the  present.  I  want  to  go  home, 
when  I  can;  but  I'd  better  be  a  little  more  —  steady 
first." 

"Surely.  You  were  going,  the  day  after  you  were 
burned." 

Jack  nodded. 

"Yes.  That's  been  a  worry,  too.  My  mother 
needs  me,  needs  to  see  me,  that  is.  I  feel  I  ought 
to  get  off,  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"Why  don't  you  go,  as  soon  as  the  doctor  lets  you 
out  of  cotton  wool?"  Amy  demanded. 

"Because,"  Jack's  one  available  eye  was  on  the 
shining  azure  band  of  the  river,  far  beneath;  "because 
the  mother's  getting  old,  and  she's  more  or  less  bound 
to  worry.  At  best,  when  she  gets  a  look  at  me,  it's 
going  to  be  something  of  a  shock.  Can't  you  see 


300  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

how  it  is?  She  mustn't  feel  it  too  much;  it  would 
be  the  worst  thing  for  her,  at  her  age  and  all.  And 
I  can  hold  her  a  good  deal  more  steady,  if  I  have  had 
a  little  time  to  get  used  to  it  first,  myself." 

And  Amy,  watching  the  determined  profile,  listen- 
ing to  the  quiet,  grave  young  voice,  nodded  in  perfect 
silence,  for  she  dared  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 

The  long  May  afternoon  was  waning,  when  Amy 
left  Jack  outside  the  Argyle  door.  As  he  entered 
the  large  reception  hall,  he  started  towards  his  room, 
then  lingered  irresolutely  before  the  open  fire  which 
purred  softly  on  the  great  brass  andirons.  There 
was  nothing  especial  for  him  to  do  in  his  room,  noth- 
ing, in  fact,  anywhere  just  now.  Dropping  down 
into  a  chair,  he  stared  into  the  blaze  and  devoted 
himself  to  thinking  about  Amy.  After  all,  his  dreaded 
drive  had  been  a  pleasant  break  in  the  general  monot- 
ony of  things.  Moreover,  he  was  ready  to  confess  to 
himself  a  sneaking  liking  for  Amy  herself.  She  was 
by  no  means  altogether  a  dunce,  and  she  had  been, 
for  the  most  part,  the  blithest  possible  companion. 
Moreover,  Jack,  while  hating  coddling,  was  wholly 
human.  He  admitted  to  himself  that  Amy,  shorn 
of  her  blitheness,  had  been  in  the  sweetest  mood  of 
all.  Yes,  he  was  ready  to  count  Amy  as  a  friend, 
although  as  yet  he  had  no  notion  of  the  good  turn 
Amy  was  about  to  do  him.  Afterwards,  he  was  glad 
he  had  thrown  away  the  last  shreds  of  his  antagonism 
to  Amy  just  when  he  did. 

His  musings  were  interrupted  by  a  whirr  of  the 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  301 

bell,  and,  before  he  could  get  on  his  feet  and  vanish 
out  of  sight,  the  door  flew  open  and  Phyllis  Stayre 
swept  down  upon  him,  a  Phyllis  Stayre  of  unfamiliar 
guise.  Lanky  and  freckled  and  spectacled  still,  she 
was  yet  transformed  by  a  becoming  frock  and  hat, 
by  the  loosened  waves  of  hair  that  lay  about  her  face 
and,  most  of  all,  by  the  great  good  will  that  gleamed 
in  her  pale  eyes.  Poor  Phyllis  would  never  be  a 
beauty,  did  she  live  to  six  score  years.  Nevertheless, 
the  past  few  weeks  had  borne  her  far  on  along  the 
road  to  girlish  comeliness.  Her  manner,  however, 
was  still  characteristically  abrupt. 

"Hullo,  Jackie!"  she  hailed  him  from  the  threshold. 
"Where  have  you  been,  all  afternoon?" 
At  the  hail,  Jack  turned  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"Hullo,  Phil!"  he  said  cordially.    "Come  in  and 
talk  to  a  fellow." 

"What  for,  I'd  like  to  know?"     But,  as  she  spoke, 
Phyllis  dragged  a  chair  forward  to  a  corner  of  the  rug. 
"I'm  lonesome." 
Phyllis  sniffed. 

"You!    You  looked  it,  half  an  hour  ago." 
"When  was  that?" 

"When  you  were  trailing  down  by  the  Mall  in  Amy 
Browne's  carriage.  You  are  a  nice  friend,  to  cut  me 
dead  in  the  Park,  when  I  was  smirking  at  you  till  my 
ears  tied  themselves  in  a  hard  knot  at  the  back  of 
my  neck." 

Jack  laughed  unfeelingly,  as  Phyllis  flounced  down 

into  the  chair. 


302  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"Wait  a  week  or  so,  Phil,"  he  bade  her.  "Just 
now,  I  haven't  any  extra  eye  to  waste  on  you." 

"Not  when  Amy  is  about,"  Phyllis  said  a  little 
morosely.  "She  is  the  prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw  in 
all  my  life." 

"Amy?  "  Jack's  tone  was  a  bit  incredulous.  "She 
can't  compare  with  Sidney  or  with  Day." 

"Much  you  know  about  it,"  Phyllis  made  disdain- 
ful comment.  "  Day  wouldn't  be  pretty,  if  she  weren't 
an  Argyle,  and,  as  for  Sidney,  she  has  just  one  pretty 
feature  and  that's  her  feet.  I  declare,  Jack,  if  you 
go  on,  you'll  be  calling  me  pretty,  next  I  know." 

"All  right,  if  you'll  return  the  compliment,"  Jack 
promised  unexpectedly. 

Her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  her  chin  on  her 
clenched  fists,  Phyllis  steadily  contemplated  him,  as 
far  as  she  could  see.  Jack,  meanwhile,  watched  her 
lazily,  watched  the  new  alertness  of  her  mobile  face 
where  strength  and  gentleness  and  humour  chased 
one  another  back  and  forth  by  turns,  as  the  girl's 
eager  mind  wandered  swiftly  to  and  fro. 

"No,"  she  said  regretfully  at  length.  "It's  no  use, 
Jack.  You  may  be  a  dear;  just  now,  everybody  is 
calling  you  a  hero,  but  you  aren't  pretty  in  the  least. 
You're  too  pale,  and  you've  three  wrinkles  around 
your  eye,  and — put  your  head  down  here,  this  minute." 

Laughing,  he  obeyed  her,  and  bent  forward  for  in- 
spection while  Phyllis  scanned  his  crisp  brown  hair. 

"Yes,  I  thought  so,"  she  said  then.  "You've 
seven  gray  hairs  just  north  of  your  ear." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  303 

"Pull  them  out,  then,"  he  bade  her. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No  use.  Seven  more  would  come  to  the  funeral 
and,  before  you  knew  it,  you  would  be  brindled  all 
over  your  head.  Jack,  it's  deplorable.  You're  only 
twenty-three  years  old,  and  here  you  are  with  three 
wrinkles  and  seven  gray  hairs.  You're  getting  old 
before  your  time."  Playfully,  while  she  had  been 
speaking,  the  girl  had  been  poking  his  hair  this  way 
and  that.  Now,  of  a  sudden,  her  two  brown  hands 
shut  gently  on  his  head  and  turned  his  laughing  face 
upward  until  it  met  her  gaze.  "And,  Jack,"  she 
said,  in  a  voice  from  which  all  merriment  had  fled; 
"I'm  so  afraid  you've  done  it  all  for  me." 

It  was  now  a  good  three  weeks  since  the  Argyle 
carriage  had  been  sent,  one  morning,  to  bring  Phyllis 
for  her  first  call  on  Jack.  She  found  Jack  quite  alone, 
for  Rob  and  Day  were  at  their  lessons,  the  nurse  had 
gone  down-stairs,  and  Sidney,  who  had  come  with 
her  in  the  carriage,  had  judged  it  best  to  allow  Phyllis 
to  go  in  by  herself.  The  girl  had  pledged  herself  to 
perfect  quiet,  and  resolutely  she  kept  her  pledge, 
although  it  had  taken  all  her  will  to  face  the  swaddled 
figure  stretched  out  on  the  couch  which  stood  across 
the  sunny  window.  Nevertheless,  Phyllis  Stayre 
was  always  plucky,  and  she  showed  her  pluck  now  as 
never  before. 

"May  I  come  in?"  she  asked,  as  she  halted  just 
across  the  threshold. 

"Phil!    Is  it  really  you?    Come  along  and  help 


304  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

yourself  to  a  chair,"  Jack  answered  cordially,  for 
Sidney  had  told  him  how  much  Phyllis  was  dreading, 
yet  longing  for  this  visit. 

"Yes.  I  wanted  to  see  how  you  were  feeling.  I 
brought  you  some  flowers."  Phyllis  spoke  with  con- 
straint. "I  hope  you  are  getting  better." 

"Thanks,  yes.  What  beautiful  carnations!  It's  nice 
of  you  to  bring  them,  Phil.  Are  you  all  right  again?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Nothing  ever  hurts  me  long."  Phyllis 
showed  a  touch  of  her  old  manner;  but  it  swiftly 
left  her  again.  "Do  you  suffer  much  pain  now?" 
she  queried,  with  a  stolid  gravity  which  gave  no 
hint  of  the  way  her  heart  bumped  wildly,  each  time 
she  met  Jack's  friendly  gaze. 

"Some.  It's  bearable,  though.  But  we  made  a 
grand  catouse,  Phil."  Jack  laughed  a  little,  as  he 
spoke,  hoping  to  assist  the  girl  down  from  her  un- 
comfortable pinnacle  of  manners. 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid  we  spoiled  the  party  for  every- 
body." Phyllis  scowled  at  the  tips  of  her  brand 
new  gloves. 

"We  did  for  ourselves,  anyhow,"  Jack  returned 
philosophically.  "How  did  the  rug  come  out,  Phil?" 

"Father  had  it  buried,  early  the  next  morning. 
He  said  he  couldn't  bear  to  look  at  it.  It  had  one 
dreadful  hole,"  Phyllis  replied  categorically.  "And 
my  frock  was  completely  spoiled." 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  flickered  across  Jack's  lips. 

"No  matter,  as  long  as  you  weren't  spoiled  like- 
wise," he  observed. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  305 

"I  suppose  not.  It  might  have  been  much  worse, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  you.  I  can  never  pay  you  back 
for  all  you  did."  The  child  congratulated  herself 
that,  without  breaking  in  upon  her  promised  quiet, 
she  had  at  last  reached  the  end  at  which  she  had 
been  aiming  from  the  start.  She  had  determined  to  ac- 
complish it,  even  though  it  should  take  all  her  strength 
and  courage.  Unhappily,  though,  both  strength  and 
courage  failed  her  now;  and,  with  a  suddenness  that 
took  Jack  by  complete  surprise,  she  buried  her  face 
in  the  folds  of  his  sleeve.  "Oh,  Jack,  I  can't  bear 
it!"  she  wailed.  "I  told  Sidney  I'd  be  quiet.  I 
didn't  mean  to  cry;  but  I  can't  sit  there  any  longer, 
exactly  like  a  stuffed  doll,  and  say  I'm  sorry,  when 
my  heart  is  breaking.  I  can't,  and  I  just  won't!" 

"But,  Phil  dear  — "  Jack  stroked  the  brown 
head  which  shook  with  the  sobs  that  refused  to  be 
choked  back. 

"My  heart  is  breaking,  I  tell  you,"  the  girl  went  on 
fiercely.  "It  hurts  me  here  and  here,  whenever  I 
think  about  you.  Ever  since  you  came  to  New 
York,  Jack  Blanchard,  I've  been  just  as  horrid  to  you 
as  I  knew  how.  And  now  here  you  are,  ill  and  ban- 
daged up  and  aching,  and  it's  all  my  fault,  all  the  fault 
of  horrid,  ugly  me.  Jack,"  she  lifted  her  head  for 
an  instant;  "do  you  realize  I  would  have  died,  died 
in  awful,  screaming  pain,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you? 
And  I  didn't  deserve  it,  either.  I  was  horrid;  and 
you  —  You  saved  my  life  and  took  all  the  pain  I 
should  have  had.  Jack,  what  can  I  say?" 


306  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

Afterwards,  in  all  her  life,  Phyllis  never  forgot 
the  half-hour  that  followed,  never  forgot  the  utter 
anguish  which  swept  across  her,  only  to  be  lifted,  bit 
by  bit,  by  Jack's  low,  steady  words,  by  the  touch  of 
Jack's  caressing  hand.  For  long,  she  kept  her  face 
buried  in  his  sleeve,  while  the  hot  tears  flowed  fast 
until  they  trickled  through  and  wet  his  arm  beneath. 
At  last,  however,  she  raised  her  head  to  meet  Jack's 
level  gaze,  meet  it  with  a  light  in  her  eyes  such  as  he 
had  never  seen  there  until  then. 

"Jack,"  she  said  solemnly;  "you  saved  my  life. 
It  wasn't  good  for  much;  I've  always  been  a  cross 
thing  and  a  cranky.  But  I'll  promise  you  this:  as 
far  as  I  can  do  it,  I'll  do  my  best  that  some  day  you 
can  say  it  was  worth  your  while."  And,  bending 
down,  she  left  one  of  her  rare  kisses  upon  his  hand, 
outstretched  to  her  in  witness  of  her  promise. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  307 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

l  VEN  the  noisy  bedlam  of  lower  New  York  felt  the 
charm  of  the  May-time.  The  air  was  clear  and 
mellow,  and  the  smoke  from  countless  chimneys  rose 
up  in  straight,  dark  pillars  against  the  blue  heavens, 
leaving  the  city  beneath  untainted  by  their  sooty 
vapours.  As  Day  took  her  way  down  town,  the 
roadways  were  still  glistening  from  an  early  morning 
shower,  and  something  of  the  freshness  of  the  season 
and  of  the  sunny  morning  seemed  enveloping  the 
dingy,  heavy  piles  of  masonry  between  which  she 
passed. 

In  spite  of  the  charm  of  the  morning,  however, 
Day's  brows  were  knitted  into  an  anxious  knot,  as 
she  stepped  from  the  lift  into  her  father's  outer  office. 

"Busy!  But  I  want  to  see  him,"  she  said  a  little 
peremptorily.  "Well,  if  it  is  a  directors'  meeting,  I 
suppose  I  really  shall  have  to  wait." 

Crossing  to  an  open  window,  she  leaned  out  over 
the  sill,  looking  far  down  into  the  street  beneath 
whence  arose  the  strident  din  of  the  noisy  human 
tide  which  still  flowed  on,  racing,  eddying,  whirling 
on  again,  swirling  to  and  fro  to  avoid  some  hidden 
obstacle,  then  rushing  on  once  more,  ceaseless,  resist- 
less and  unresting.  It  was  the  same  old  picture 


308  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

which  Day  had  learned  to  know  so  well:  the  swiftly- 
moving  cars,  the  fretting  horses,  the  unceasing  tide 
of  human  life  still  tearing  onward  towards  some  dis- 
tant and  unreachable  goal.  And  then,  as  she  still 
leaned  out  over  the  stone  sill  and  gazed  down  upon  it 
all,  there  rang  out  above  the  din  the  mellow  chime 
from  the  old  brown  Trinity  spire.  Listening,  Day's 
eyes  cleared,  and  the  anxious  pucker  left  her  brows, 
for  something  in  the  mellow  sound  carried  her  back 
to  one  other  morning,  eight  full  months  before,  when 
she  had  sought  her  father's  consent  to  her  unusual 
birthday  party.  She  smiled  slightly  to  herself,  recall- 
ing the  success  it  had  proved  to  be.  And  now  this 
other  plan  — 

"Well,  Day?" 

She  spun  about  sharply.  Her  father  was  watching 
her  from  the  threshold  of  the  inner  room. 

"Have  the  directors  all  gone,  Daddy?" 

"Every  man  of  them." 

She  marched  past  him  into  the  room  and  perched 
herself  in  the  impressive  presidential  chair  which 
made  an  incongruous  setting  for  her  slender  self  in 
her  pale  spring  gown  and  wide  white  hat. 

"I  took  this  chair  on  purpose,  Daddy.  I  intend  to 
preside  at  this  meeting,"  she  said  audaciously.  "Sit 
down  anywhere."  And,  with  a  gracious  wave  of  her 
hand,  she  beckoned  him  to  one  of  the  chairs  grouped 
about  the  lower  end  of  the  table. 

"What  now?"  he  queried,  as  he  obeyed  her  gest- 
ure. "Another  birthday  function?" 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  309 

"Daddy!  "she  protested.  "Give  me  time.  I  don't 
grow  old,  twice  a  year." 

"What  then?" 

"Jack,"  she  answered  unexpectedly. 

"Jack!"  her  father  echoed  alertly.  "Did  he  come 
down  with  you?" 

"No;  he  didn't,"  Day  said  flatly.  Then  she 
leaned  forward  and  sat  facing  him,  with  her  elbows 
on  the  table  and  her  chin  in  her  palms.  "Daddy, 
I  came  down  here  expressly  to  talk  to  you  about 
Jack.  You  know  the  doctor  said  he  wasn't  getting 
on  as  fast  as  he  ought  to  do,  and  asked  if  he  had 
any  worry  or  anything  on  his  mind  to  keep  him 
back.  Well." 

"Well.    Has  he?" 

"Yes.  I  didn't  know  it  until  late  yesterday, 
though.  He  went  to  drive  with  Amy,  and  told  her 
many  things.  I  saw  Amy  after  that,  and  she  told 
me  many  things.  Then  I  lay  awake,  most  of  the 
night,  and  planned  many  things,  and  now  I've  come 
to  have  you  ratify  my  plans." 

"What  sort  of  plans,  Day?" 

And  Day,  her  chin  still  in  her  hands,  launched  into 
earnest  talk.  Amy  had  made  over  to  her  in  detail 
all  of  her  own  conversation  with  Jack,  the  day  before; 
and  Day,  putting  that  with  other  details,  had  been 
able  to  supply  the  clue  to  Jack's  slow  convalescence. 
Mr.  Argyle  listened,  listened  steadily  and  with  in- 
creasing gravity.  When  the  girl  had  finished  her 
story,  he  sat  for  a  moment,  lost  in  thought. 


310  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do  about  it,  Day?"  he 
asked  her  then. 

"Get  his  mother  down  here,  by  some  hook  or 
crook,"  Day  said  readily. 

"Will  she  come?" 

Day's  answer  was  intrepid. 

"She  will,  if  I  bring  her." 

"You?" 

"Yes,  I,"  Day  said  firmly. 

"But  you  can't  go  to  Toronto  alone,  child." 

"I  don't  propose  to.  There's  Miss  Margaret,  that 
nurse  I  had  when  I  was  little.  She's  a  lady;  she 
knows  how  to  travel  as  well  as  I  do,  and  she  would 
look  out  for  me,  I  know." 

"  Mm-m.  Well,  perhaps.  But  suppose  she  wouldn't 
come?" 

"Miss  Margaret?" 

"Mrs.  Blanchard." 

Day  raised  her  head  and  let  her  clasped  hands  fall 
to  the  table. 

"  Daddy,  don't  I  usually  succeed  in  getting  what  I 
want?" 

Her  father's  laugh  filled  the  room. 

"Yes,  young  person,  you  certainly  do." 

"Well,  trust  me  now.  Besides,  there's  Jack  down 
here,  and,  if  she's  half  a  mother,  she'll  jump  at  the 
chance  to  come." 

"If  she's  strong  enough." 

Mr.  Argyle's  tone  would  have  been  like  a  cold 
douche  to  most  girls.  Not  so  to  fearless  Day. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  31 1 

"Daddy,  listen.  You  have  more  money  than  I 
care  to  spend  time  to  count.  Every  year,  you  give 
me  more  than  I  care  to  spend.  What  is  the  use  of 
all  your  money,  if  you  can't  arrange  a  comfortable 
journey  for  one  poor  old  woman,  especially  when  you 
always  say  you  never  could  get  on  without  that  poor 
old  woman's  son?" 

Mr.  Argyle  smiled  at  her  tone;  but  he  yielded  to 
her  logic. 

"I'll  think  about  it,  Day.  It's  not  a  bad  idea,  for 
I  can  see,  now  you  speak  about  it,  how  the  fellow  is 
dreading  to  tell  his  mother  what  has  happened.  But 
ought  you  to  be  the  one  to  go?" 

"Why  not,  if  I  have  Miss  Margaret  with  me? 
Mother  has  other  things  to  do;  besides,  she  wouldn't 
be  as  good  as  I  am.  She  would  say  one  polite  Please, 
and  then  stop.  For  me,  I  shall  tease  and  tease  and 
tease  until  I  get  her  started." 

"Rob  could  go,  I  suppose." 

Day  shook  her  head. 

"I  thought  of  that.  I  know  he  would  be  willing; 
but  it  wouldn't  do.  She  would  come  with  me,  sooner 
than  with  a  strange  young  man.  Besides,  Jack 
mustn't  know  a  thing  about  it  till  she's  here.  If  Rob 
went  dashing  off,  he'd  think  it  was  strange;  but  girls 
are  always  doing  things  at  the  shortest  kind  of  notice. 
No,  Daddy,  I  hate  to  travel;  but,  this  time,  I'll  go, 
myself." 

Again  her  father  pondered  swiftly,  deeply.  Again 
he  realized  that  Day  was  growing  up,  growing,  too, 


312  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

in  her  heedful  planning  for  the  comfort  of  others.  It 
would  be  a  short,  hard  journey  for  the  girl;  but  Miss 
Margaret  would  be  a  host  in  herself,  and  Day  would 
suffer  for  neither  care  nor  safeguarding.  He  sat  for 
a  moment  longer,  staring  across  at  Day,  and  tapping, 
tapping  thoughtfully  upon  the  table's  edge.  Then, 
rising,  he  went  to  his  desk  and  took  up  the  telephone. 

"Day,"  he  asked,  over  his  shoulder;  "if  I  order 
transportation  for  my  car,  to-night,  can  you  be 
ready?" 

Rob  saw  her  off  at  the  station,  directly  after  dinner. 
Her  explanation  given  to  Jack  had  been  most  non- 
chalant. 

"Such  a  lark!"  she  had  said,  as  she  was  picking  up 
her  soup  spoon.  "I'm  off  for  a  three-day  frolic. 
One  of  my  friends,  the  mother  of  one  of  my  friends,  I 
mean,"  she  corrected  herself  with  an  elaborate  care 
which  set  Rob  to  choking  over  his  soup;  "is  going 
to  entertain  me.  Don't  you  wish  you  could  come, 
too?" 

"Day,"  Rob  said,  as  he  settled  her  in  the  car  where 
Miss  Margaret  already  sat  awaiting  her;  "you're  only 
a  girl;  but  you're  a  good  deal  of  a  trump." 

She  laughed  a  little  nervously. 

"Wait,"  she  bade  him,  as  she  put  up  her  lips  for  his 
good-by  kiss.  "After  all,  you  know,  I  may  not  take 
the  trick." 

Two  days  later,  Wade  dropped  in  upon  Jack,  on 
his  way  up  town. 

"Better,  old  man?"  he  queried. 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  313 

"Much.  My  teeth  are  snicking  together,  though." 
Jack  tried  to  laugh,  as  he  spoke.  "The  doctor  is 
going  to  take  me  out  of  cotton,  in  the  morning." 

"To  stay  out?" 

"Yes.  For  better,  or  for  worse.  Come  in,  at 
night,  and  look  me  over.  You  may  as  well  get  used 
to  it  at  the  start." 

His  hat  still  in  his  hand,  Wade  stood  looking  at  his 
companion  with  thoughtful,  kindly  eyes. 

"Brace  up,  Jack,  and  keep  steady,"  he  said.  "I 
know  how  it  is,  myself,  this  pinning  all  your  plans  on 
the  point  of  a  doctor's  skill.  I  came  through  it, 
alive,  and  I've  more  than  a  notion  you'll  do  the  same. 
Things  generally  do  come  out  a  little  better  than  they 
promise.  I'll  look  in  on  you,  at  night,  though,  and 
judge  for  myself.  Where  is  Day?" 

"Don't  know,  worse  luck!"  Jack  cast  himself 
down  in  a  chair.  "Just  when  I  miss  her  most,  she's 
gone  gallivanting  off  for  a  week  end  with  some  friend 
or  other." 

"Funny  thing  Sidney  didn't  speak  of  it,"  Wade 
observed.  "I  thought  they  both  had  some  plan  for 
to-morrow.  They  usually  do  foregather  on  Saturday 
afternoons." 

"They  won't,  this  week.  Still,!  suppose  it's  Day's 
last  fling  before  she  takes  her  final  examinations. 
However,  I  wish  she  hadn't  gone  just  now,"  Jack 
answered  restlessly. 

"  Tis  too  bad.  A  girl  is  a  mighty  comfortable 
thing  to  have  about,  in  seasons  of  stress,"  Wade 


314  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

assented.  "I  remember  how  I  shadowed  Sidney,  the 
day  before  I  went  in  for  my  examination.  She  gave 
me  all  the  pluck  I  had,  and  then  escorted  me  to  the 
very  door  of  His  Specialship.  Well,  good-by,  man. 
Keep  up  your  courage,  and  I  think  things  will  come 
out  better  than  you  think  for." 

With  a  kindly  nod  which  said  far  more  than  any 
words,  Wade  went  his  way.  Inside  his  own  door,  he 
called  for  Sidney. 

"Tids,"  he  said  gravely;  "do  you  remember  that 
last  day  at  Grande  Riviere  before  I  went  to  see 
Doctor  Cromwell?  Well,  Jack's  bandages  come  off, 
to-morrow,  and  Day  is  away." 

Sidney  Stayre  rarely  needed  explanations.  Now 
she  understood. 

"I'll  go  down  there,  in  the  morning,"  she  said, 
and  she  was  as  good  as  her  word. 

It  was  well  on  towards  noon,  next  day,  when  a 
bebuttoned  porter  brought  a  yellow  envelope  into 
the  inner  office  where  Mr.  Argyle  bent  above  his 
desk.  With  leisurely  hands  he  tore  it  open,  read  the 
half-dozen  words,  then  took  the  receiver  from  the 
telephone  beside  him. 

"Three-eight-three-five.  Yes.  Is  Jack  there? 
Can  I  speak  to  him?  Jack?  Oh,  Jack,  how  goes 
it?  Really?  All  right?  Good.  I  am  so  glad  to 
hear  it.  And  now  see  here,  Jack,  Day  will  be  home 
by  the  two-ten  on  the  Central,  and  Rob  is  going  out 
to  Heatherleigh.  Do  you  think  you  would  be  able 
to  meet  her?  Yes,  at  two-ten.  Thanks." 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IX  NEW  YORK  315 

By  two  o'clock,  Jack  Blanchard,  mummified  no 
longer,  was  striding  up  and  down  the  long  platform 
at  the  western  side  of  the  huge  station,  waiting 
impatiently  for  Day.  He  had  missed  the  girl  acutely, 
more  than  he  would  ever  have  supposed  it  possible 
for  him  to  miss  any  girl.  Moreover,  he  had  things 
to  tell  her,  things  to  say  that  no  one  else,  he  felt,  not 
even  Rob,  could  rightly  understand.  His  step  rang 
sharply  on  the  pavement,  and  his  shoulders  straight- 
ened at  the  thoughts  which  even  now  were  bringing 
a  smile  to  his  firm,  thin  lips.  Then  he  snapped  the 
case  of  his  watch  impatiently. 

At  last,  the  train  came  sliding  in.  Far  down  its 
long,  wavering  length,  he  made  out  the  golden  letters 
of  a  name,  Aurora,  the  name  of  Mr.  Argyle's  car. 
Brushing  aside  the  thronging,  restless  crowd,  he  went 
striding  swiftly  down  the  platform  towards  the  spot 
where  it  was  bound  to  halt. 

From  afar  Day,  already  in  the  vestibule,  saw  him 
coming.  As  far  away  as  she  could  see,  she  took 
swift  note  of  the  old  swinging  stride,  of  the  proudly 
poised  head.  Then  her  eyes  dropped  below  the  level 
of  his  shoulders,  dropped  and  remained  there,  although 
her  face  was  alight  with  welcome.  For  one  long 
minute  and  for  two,  she  held  herself  still,  unmoved, 
while  she  gathered  herself  together  and  mustered 
all  her  strength  to  look  him  in  the  face.  Then,  as 
her  eyes  lifted,  wavered,  and  lifted  once  more  to 
meet  his  own  eyes  squarely,  she  gave  a  little  glad 
outcry  and,  regardless  of  the  lifelong  training  which 


316  DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK 

she  had  received  from  her  father,  before  the  car  had 
fairly  come  to  a  standstill,  she  cast  herself  down  the 
steps  and  landed  on  Jack's  sturdy  shoulder. 

"Jack,  you  old  darling!"  she  gasped,  midway 
between  tears  and  laughter.  "And  after  the  way 
you  frightened  us!  It  hardly  shows  at  all." 

But  Jack,  for  once,  had  no  eyes  nor  thought  for 
Day.  Instinctively,  he  caught  her  as  she  came;  but 
he  was  seeing  one  thing  only.  On  the  upper  step  of 
the  car  stood  Miss  Margaret,  black-gowned,  decorous 
and  smiling;  and,  just  behind  Miss  Margaret,  there 
stood  some  one  else,  her  cheeks  wet  and  her  arms 
extended  to  him. 

"Mother!"  Jack  cried,  and,  the  next  instant,  he 
bounded  up  the  steps  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

Rob,  his  blue  eyes  suspiciously  pink  and  his  voice 
bearing  in  its  hoarse  note  all  the  symptoms  of  an 
incipient  cold  in  the  head,  lounged  out  from  behind 
a  pillar  in  time  to  take  Day  home.  Miss  Margaret 
had  been  packed  into  a  cab,  and  the  mother  and  son 
drove  away  together  in  the  Argyle  carriage.  Then, 
as  they  turned  to  walk  away,  Rob  tucked  his  hand 
inside  Day's  arm. 

"You  worked  that  game  out  rather  well  and  won 
your  trick,  Day,"  he  said  approvingly.  "It's  a 
wholly  joyous  surprise  for  Jack,  and  I  fancy  it  will 
be  the  last  tonic  that  he  needs.  Mother  has  the  room 
opening  into  his  all  ready  for  her.  Later,  she  is  to 
go  out  to  Heatherleigh  for  a  while.  After  all,  though, 
you  must  admit  that  we  had  somewhat  of  a  joyous 


DAY:  HER  YEAR  IN  NEW  YORK  317 

surprise  waiting  for  you  at  this  end.  What  did  you 
think,  when  you  saw  old  Jack?" 

Day  caught  her  breath  sharply. 

"Did  I  imagine  it,  Rob;    or  is  it  really  true?" 

"True  as  a  die,"  Rob  assured  her,  as  he  shouldered 
his  stick.  "Of  course,  it  has  made  hay  of  his  eye- 
brow, and  his  forehead  isn't  exactly  pretty  on  that 
side  of  him.  Still,  his  cheek  is  about  all  right,  and 
his  hair  can  hide  the  worst  of  it,  if  he  doesn't  keep  it 
pruned  too  tight." 

Dropping  his  hand  from  her  arm,  Day  turned  to 
him  abruptly. 

"Rob,"  her  voice  was  impetuous;  "I  could  hug 
that  doctor." 

Rob  laughed,  and  his  blue  eyes,  clear  and  merry, 
looked  straight  down  into  hers,  carrying  hi  their 
gaze  a  story  of  such  love  as  rarely  falls  to  the  lot  of 
any  sister. 

"Try  me,  instead,"  he  bade  her  gravely. 

And  then  he  linked  his  arm  hi  hers  once  more. 


THE   END. 


ANNA     CHAPIN      RAY'S 

"SIDNEY"     STORIES 


Having  completed  the  "  Teddy  "  books,  which  delighted  and  continue  to  entertain 
thousands  of  readers,  Miss  Ray  in  her  new  "  Sidney  "  books  utilizes  new  scenes  and 
an  entirely  new  set  of  characters. 

Anna  Chapin  Ray  is  to  the  present  generation  of  youthful  readers  what  Louisa  M. 
Alcott  was  to  her  generation.  Her  stories  may  be  commended  for  their  straight- 
forward, simple  style,  their  clean  atmosphere,  and  their  uplifting  influence  on  the 
characters  of  all  who  peruse  them.  — Boston  Transcript. 

SIDNEY:    HER    SUMMER   ON    THE 
ST.  LAWRENCE 

Illustrated  by  Alice  Barber  Stephens.     I2tno.     $1.50. 

Sidney  Stayre  is  another  of  the  author's  true,  helpful,  earnest  girl  characters.  — 
Denver  Republican. 

The  young  heroine  is  a  forceful  little  maiden  of  sweet  sixteen.  The  descriptions 
of  picnics  in  the  pretty  Canadian  country  are  very  gay  and  enticing,  and  Sidney 
and  her  friends  are  a  merry  group  of  wholesome  young  people.  —  Churchmant 
New  York. 

JANET:  HER  WINTER  IN  QUEBEC 

Illustrated  by  Alice  Barber  Stephens.      I2mo.     $1.50. 

Gives  a  delightful  picture  of  Canadian  life  and  introduces  a  group  of  young  people 
who  are  bright  and  wholesome  and  good  to  read  about.  —  New  York  Globe. 

The  story  is  one  of  exciting  adventures,  entertaining  dialogue,  refreshing  views 
into  the  heart  of  youth,  and  withal  instructive  glimpses  of  the  picturesque  old 
city.  The  book  is  one  of  rare  vitality  and  charm.  —  Denver  News. 

DAY:    HER   YEAR   IN    NEW   YORK 

Illustrated  by  Harriet  Roosevelt  Richards.     I2mo.     $1.50. 

The  scenes  of  the  third  volume  in  Miss  Ray's  popular  "  Sidney  "  books  are  laid 
in  New  York  and  at  "  Heatherleigh,"  the  summer  home  of  the  Argyle  family. 
Several  of  the  favorite  characters  of  the  first  two  books  reappear,  including  Sidney 
Stayre,  Wade  Winthrop,  and  the  young  Pullman  car  conductor,  Jack  Chambers, 
who  figured  in  "Janet :  her  Winter  in  Quebec." 

The  new  story  deals  largely  with  the  character  of  Sidney's  younger  sister  Phyllis, 
a  sensitive  girl,  who,  although  constantly  at  odds  with  her  friends,  through  helping 
hands  develops  into  a  loving,  warm-hearted  girl. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  fc?  COMPANY,  Publishers 
254  WASHINGTON  ST.,  BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS 


ANNA     CHAPIN     RAY'S 

"TEDDY"    STORIES 


Miss  Ray's  work  draws  instant  comparison  with  the  best  of  Miss  Alcott's:  first, 
because  she  has  the  same  genuine  sympathy  with  boy  and  girl  life  ;  secondly, 
because  she  creates  real  characters,  individual  and  natural,  like  the  young  people 
one  knows,  actually  working  out  the  same  kind  of  problems  ;  and,  finally,  because 
her  style  of  writing  is  equally  unaffected  and  straightforward. — Christian  Register, 
Boston. 

TEDDY:   HER    BOOK.      A  Story  of  Sweet  Sixteen 
Illustrated  by  Vesper  L.  George.     I2mo.     $1.50. 

This  bewitching  story  of  "Sweet  Sixteen,"  with  its  earnestness,  impetuosity, 
merry  pranks,  and  unconscious  love  for  her  hero,  has  the  same  spring-like  charm. — 
Kate  Sanborn. 

PHEBE:   HER  PROFESSION.     A  Sequel  to  "Teddy: 

Her  Book" 
Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill.     lamo.     $1.50. 

This  is  one  of  the  few  books  written  for  young  people  in  which  there  is  to  be 
found  the  same  vigor  and  grace  that  one  demands  in  a  good  story  for  older  people. 
—  Worcester  Sfy. 

TEDDY:    HER   DAUGHTER 

A  Sequel  to  "Teddy:  Her  Book,"  and  "  Phebe  :  Her  Profession" 

Illustrated  by  J.  B.  Graff.     lamo.     $1.50. 

It  is  a  human  story,  all  the  characters  breathing  life  and  activity. — Buffalo  Times. 

NATHALIE'S    CHUM 

Illustrated  by  Ellen  Bernard  Thompson.     I2mo.     $1.50. 

Nathalie  is  the  sort  of  a  young  girl  whom  other  girls  like  to  read  about. — Hartford 

Cou  rant. 

URSULA'S  FRESHMAN.  A  Sequel  to  "Nathalie's  Chum" 
Illustrated  by  Harriet  Roosevelt  Richards.     I2mo.     $1.50. 
The  best  of  a  series  already  the  best  of  its  kind.  —  Boston  Herald. 

NATHALIE'S  SISTER.  A^V,el  to  "  Ursula's  Fresh' 
Illustrated  by  Alice  Barber  Stephens.  I2mo.  $1.50. 

Peggy,  the  heroine,  is  a  most  original  little  lady  who  says  and  does  all  sorts  of 
interesting  things.  She  has  pluck  and  spirit,  and  a  temper,  but  she  is  very  lovable, 
and  girls  will  find  h(  r  delightful  to  read  about. — Louisville  Evening  Post. 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  6f  COMPANY,  Publishers 
254  WASHINGTON  ST.,  BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS 


HELEN     LEAH     REED'S 

"BRENDA"     BOOKS 


The  author  is  one  of  the  best  equipped  of  our  writers  for  girls  of  larger  growth. 
Her  stories  are  strong,  intelligent,  and  wholesome.  —  The  Outlook,  New  York, 
Miss  Reed's  girls  have  all  the  impulses  and  likes  of  real  girls  as  their  characters 
are  developing,  and  her  record  of  their  thoughts  and  actions  reads  like  a  chapter 
snatched  from  the  page  of  life.  —  Boston  Herald. 


BRENDA,  HER  SCHOOL,  AND  HER  CLUB 

Illustrated  by  Jessie  Wilcox  Smith.     I2mo.     $1.50. 

One  of  the  most  natural  books  for  girls.  It  is  a  careful  study  of  schoolgirl  life  in 
a  large  city,  somewhat  unique  in  its  way.  —  Minneapolis  Journal. 

BRENDA'S   SUMMER   AT   ROCKLEY 

Illustrated  by  Jessie  Wilcox  Smith.     I2mo.     $1.50. 

It  is  a  wholesome  book,  telling  of  a  merry  and  healthy  vacation.  — Dial,  Chicago. 

BRENDA'S  COUSIN  AT  RADCLIFFE 

Illustrated  by  Alice  Barber  Stephens.     I2mo.     $1.50. 
No  better  college  story  has  been  written.  —  Providence  News. 

BRENDA'S   BARGAIN 

Illustrated  by  Ellen  Bernard  Thompson.     I2mo.     $1.50. 

The  story  deals  with  social  settlement  work,  under  conditions  with  which  the 
author  is  familiar. —  The  Bookman,  New  York. 

AMY   IN   ACADIA 

Illustrated  by  Katherine  Pyle.     I2mo.     $1.50. 

A  splendid  tale  for  girls,  carefully  written,  interesting  and  full  of  information  con- 
cerning the  romantic  region  made  famous  by  the  vicissitudes  of  Evangeline. — 
Toronto  Globe. 

BRENDA'S   WARD 

Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill.     I2mo.     $1.50. 

The  story  details  the  experience  of  a  Chicago  girl  at  school  in  Boston,  and  very 

absorbing  those  experiences  are  —  full  of  action  and  diversity.  —  Chicago  Post. 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  fc?  COMPANY,  Publishers 
254  WASHINGTON  ST.,  BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS 


New  Illustrated  Editions  of 
Miss  Alcott's  Famous  Stories 

THE  LITTLE  WOMEN  SERIES 

BY  LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT.  Illustrated  Edition.  With  eighty-four 
full-page  plates  from  drawings  especially  made  for  this  edition  by 
Reginald  B.  Birch,  Alice  Barber  Stephens,  Jessie  Willcox  Smith, 
and  Harriet  Roosevelt  Richards.  Svols.  Crown  8vo.  Decorated 
cloth,  gilt,  in  box,  $16.00. 

Separately  as  follows : 

1.  LITTLE  MEN  :  Life  at  Plumfield  with  Jo's  Boys 

With  1 5  full-page  illustrations  by  Reginald  B.  Birch.     $2.00. 

2.  LITTLE  WOMEN  :  or  Meg,  Jo,  Beth,  and  Amy 

With  15  full-page  illustrations  by  Alice  Barber  Stephens.    $2.00. 

3.  AN  OLD-FASHIONED  GIRL 

With  12  full-page  pictures  by  Jessie  Willcox  Smith.     $2.00. 

4.  JO'S  BOYS,  and  How  They  Turned  Out 

A  Sequel  to  "  Little  Men."  With  10  full-page  plates  by  Ellen  Wetherald 
Ahrens.  $2.00. 

5.  EIGHT  COUSINS ;  or,  the  Aunt-Hill 

With  8  full-page  pictures  by  Harriet  Roosevelt  Richards. 

6.  ROSE  IN  BLOOM 

A  Sequel  to  "  Eight  Cousins."  With  8  full-page  pictures  by  Harriet 
Roosevelt  Richards.  $2.00. 

7.  UNDER  THE  LILACS 

With  8  original  full-page  pictures  by  Alice  Barber  Stephens.    $2.00. 

8.  JACK  AND  JILL 

With  8  full-page  pictures  from  drawings  by  Harriet  Roosevelt  Richards. 
$2.00. 

The  artists  selected  to  fllustrate  have  caught  the  spirit  of  the  originals  and  contributed  a 
•eries  of  strikingly  beautiful  and  faithful  pictures  of  the  author's  characters  and  scenes.  — 
Boston  Herald. 

Alice  Barber  Stephens,  who  is  very  near  the  head  of  American  illustrators,  has  shown 
wonderful  ability  in  delineating  the  characters  and  costumes  for  "  Little  Women."  They  are 
almost  startlingly  realistic.  —  Worcester  Spy. 

Miss  Alcott's  books  have  never  before  had  such  an  attractive  typographical  dress  as  the 
present.  They  are  printed  in  large  type  on  heavy  paper,  artistically  bound,  and  illustrated 
with  many  full-page  drawings.  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

LITTLE,    BROWN,   &    COMPANY 

Publishers,  xS4   WASHINGTON    STREET,  BOSTON,   MASS. 


